Scales and Feathers and Alcohol
by Miyazaki A2
Summary: A series of drabbles, ficlets, oneshots, whathaveyou about Crowley and Aziraphale, and their lives together at random points in time. It's all the same basic continuity, just random. Watch out for some slash here and there, because slash is made of love.
1. World War

Aziraphale watched the bombs rain down on London, and sighed. His apartment building would not be destroyed, but, at this point, he truly didn't care if he was inconveniently discorporated.

He felt a familiar presence join him in his small living room, and he turned slightly to see a demon sitting in his armchair.

"I thought you'd be in Germany," the angel said simply, hollowly, ignoring all forms of greeting.

Crowley stared straight past the angel, out the window. "I thought you'd be in Switzerland," he replied just as listlessly.

And the words that hovered in the air between them belonged to neither of them and both of them. '_London is my home. Where else would I be?' _

The both flinched at the sudden roar of a bomb exploding in a neighborhood nearby. Aziraphale nodded distantly, concentrating on the barrier around the apartment building, wishing with all his might that he had the power to shield the whole city. He regarded the demon with a weak _I-can't-be-bothered-to-deal-with-you-right-now_ sort of look and turned back towards the window.

"So…how much of this is your…your people's doing?" Aziraphale had never been fond of war, and the idea that his associate was responsible for all this needless destruction…it wasn't unimaginable, just unpalatable.

"My people don't have a lot to do with any of this anymore. It's pretty much all human at this point." The answer was businesslike.

"What did you do, Crowley?"

The demon shrugged, and was suddenly very glad that Aziraphale was looking in the opposite direction, just so those stupid, sparkling eyes wouldn't be able to make him consider feeling guilty. "It was my idea to get the children out of the city."

Aziraphale's head snapped around in shock. "_What?_ Really?! My dear, please explain to a silly old angel like me how on earth that is an evil thing to do?"

Crowley shrugged again. "You obviously haven't spent that much time around people with children."

The angel bristled. He didn't like children as much as he probably should have—they wrote inside of books and colored on walls with their silly crayons. But he couldn't say that to the demon, so he replied stiffly and rather self-righteously, "I've been around God."

Crowley scoffed. "'Snot the same thing," he replied hurriedly, waving a dismissive hand. "I'm talking about humans. Human souls. And their kids. Any time you take a child away from its parent, it's like punching their souls in the nose." He paused for effect. "When you take a child away during _a crisis_"—another pause, and he removed his sunglasses, smiling weakly—"it's like punching their souls in _the groin._"

Aziraphale flushed. "That's horrible," he said plainly. He didn't look away this time, staring the ex-serpent in his golden, reptilian eyes.

For a moment, an emotion vaguely related to 'apologetic' flitted over Anthony J. Crowley's face. His brow furrowed, and when he spoke, it was with the tone of someone who'd explained this all before, a million times before. "It's what _I do,_ angel. I'm a demon." A brief flash of something akin to worry. "You're not going to interfere, though." It was a confident statement, almost rhetorical, but not quite.

"No, I'm not," the angel replied, sighing resignedly. "At least the children will be alright," he continued, trying to console himself.

Now Crowley looked a little embarrassed, and put his sunglasses back on. The rolling sound of exploding thunder was the only sound for a long moment. Then: "Unless their parents die here."

Aziraphale groaned. Crowley didn't have to explain that angle. If the children lost their parents after being sent so far away, they would be tainted with pain and hate. It was ingenious, but it was despicable. Aziraphale had to look away from the demon on his sofa.

"Don't hold it against me," he heard Crowley plead quietly. "It's my job."

The angel nodded. "I know, dear. I know. Really, I know."

And then, the demon was beside him, slinging an arm over his shoulders. "How about thisss, angel? What—what sssay you we both get roaring drunk and pass out on the floor until this ruddy war is over and done with?"

"I haven't got any alcohol." His tone was defeated.

Crowley blinked meaningfully. Twice. "Now you do. C'mon, angel."

And they both guzzled down wine and whiskey to the sound of bombs dropping, and did their very best to stay inebriated or, better yet, unconscious for the remainder of WWII. Aziraphale sobered up every now and then to lend a helping hand to the Americans in finding concentration camps, and on one particularly brave day, Crowley made a point of rambling on and on in front of one Adolf Hitler about how suicide was looking better and better as Germany declined in the war. (For the sake of letting Hell have its fun with the Supremacist bastard as soon as possible, he excused himself.)

But, yes, for the most part, World War II went by as a drunken, sloshy blur, and it was better that way. They'd already witnessed a Great War and endless Civil and Revolutionary Wars. World Wars were just too much stress.

"And here's to shooting the guy who ever proposes a Third," Crowley had toasted one Monday, near the end of 1945. Aziraphale had crowed _here-here _with cheerful red cheeks, and they clinked their glasses so hard together that the glasses had shattered and gotten the blood-red wine all over them. They sobered up soon afterwards.


	2. Kidnapper

A man in dark, nondescript clothing walked briskly through the sunny park, smiling brightly. He stopped briefly to help a small child tie his little shoe. Then, just as the child was straightening up to keep going on his merry way, the man slapped a hand over the child's mouth, scooped him up, and bolted.

And, just as the child's mother got the sense that something was wrong, the kidnapper tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, dropped the shocked child, and fell so heavily to the concrete sidewalk that he cracked his jaw. The child ran back to his mother with such fervor that he nearly knocked her down.

Crowley playfully smacked Aziraphale on the arm, laughing. "You're not supposed to interfere, you cheater."

The angel gave the demon a wide-eyed, innocent look, but couldn't quite keep the conspiratorial smile off his face. "My dear, it's called thwarting. I'm allowed to thwart. You said so. The No Interference Rule only applies to your—er—bigger project." He wrinkled his nose delicately. "Like your little trick with turning off all the hot water this morning."

Crowley's broad grin revealed his teeth, which were slightly sharper than a regular human's should be, especially the canines. "Poor angel, the one day you decide to act human and take a shower, I just had to go an' ruin it, didn't I?"

"You did, you really did. I'll be wishing myself clean for a decade," Aziraphale replied indulgently. "It was a horrid thing to do. I'm sure the entire city has been grumbling all morning." His smile was slightly amused.

The demon looked smug, and he leaned back on the bench, his arm resting on the top of the bench behind the angel. He poked annoyingly at Aziraphale's shoulder-blades, just for something to do.

The kidnapper across the lake slowly got to his feet, rubbed his jaw, and promptly began to lurk again. After a few minutes of shameless sneaking about, he grabbed a baby from its carriage.

Aziraphale touched Crowley's knee, slightly warningly. "_Really_, dear."

"Oh, _fine._"

A cop jumped out from behind a tree, bashed the baby-thief over the head with his nightstick, and handed the wailing baby back to its plump, distraught mother.*

"You must be bored," Aziraphale observed, leaning back against Crowley's arm to throw a chunk of bread into the lake. "You've been going for melodramatic today."

Crowley's teeth gleamed, and his arm snaked even tighter around Aziraphale's shoulders. "I know what'd keep me from getting too bored." His voice dripped with innuendo.

Bright pink spots appeared on the angel's cheeks. "Yes, well. Well. I'm sure you do. Er. Let's do lunch first."

___________________________________

*_The mother and police officer were married within two years, but, luckily, Hell attributed this to the angel's thwarting skills, not the demon's desire to indulge the aforementioned angel._


	3. Sleep

The silence was broken by Aziraphale, who fidgeted restlessly, and said, "Crowley? Crowley, dear?"

The demon did not seem inclined to speak at the moment. He regarded the angel with a tired glare. "Shuddup."

The angel was quiet for a few moments, then tried again. "I can't—"

"_Try._" The demon's voice was impatient, though somehow mildly amused at the same time.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and tried to do as Crowley had told him earlier this evening. _Just close your eyes and imagine that there's nothing but you and the bed._ But then the demon had laughed and ruined the instructions. _And me, too, since I'll be there with you._

The demon's arms were snaked possessively around the angel's slightly pudgy body, and the sound of the demon's heartbeat and breathing were both extremely distracting and extremely counterproductive towards the angel's attempts at sleep.

He wasn't even sure that he _wanted _to sleep. After all, he could be reading right now, or re-alphabetizing his books, or making plans to reform a corrupted politician, or…or…

_Gosh_, but this bed was warm, and comfortable. It was no small wonder that Crowley sometimes felt inclined to stay in bed for days, if not years, at a time.

Aziraphale let one of his arms drape over the demon's waist, and sighed. It really was a comfortable bed…and such a good choice of, er, roommate…

The next time he opened his eyes, he was alone, and the room was so brightly lit that he yelped. Even when he reclosed his eyes, the inside of his eyelids were bright red and did nothing to block out the light.

Crowley popped his head in the room to investigate the noise, and smiled broadly upon seeing that his angel was awake.

"Finally up, eh? Took ya long enough. I would have stayed with you, but I didn't quite feel like staying in bed _all month_."

Aziraphale blanched and yelped a second time. "You let me sleep for _a month?!_"

Crowley sauntered closer to the angel and pecked him quickly on the mouth. "Nope. I'm just a dirty liar. And you're just a dirty—"

He was rewarded for his troubles with a swift pillow to the head, and the distinct privilege of hearing an indulgent laugh from the angel.


	4. Love

Evil loves nothing. Love is divine. Love would defeat the purpose of evil. Evil is all-consuming, all-destroying. Love would tear evil up from the core if they got anywhere near each other. Evil is completely devoid of love.

Well, that is…evil in general.

Crowley—though he would deny it within an inch of his mortal life—loved things.

He didn't love _a lot _of things. Mostly material things. He loved his stylish flat, and he loved his ever-reliable Bentley. He loved his suits, and his watch, and his music collection. (Even if a good portion of the cassettes were no longer what their packages proclaimed them to be.)

He also loved fine dining, especially the Ritz. Humans could make some dam—bless—some _really _good food this century. The wine was rather awesome, too. Alcohol in general was awesome. He rather loved getting drunk, loved the blurry _no, actually, I don't care what happens next _feeling he got when he drank, especially when it was that angel of his.

(Part of his mind registered that he was rather fond of the aforementioned angel, but he couldn't be bothered to consciously admit to that fact.)

His mind skipped to a safer affection…He loved evil. Well, not _evil_, but committing mischievous acts therein. He wasn't exactly supposed to love his job—he was just supposed to do Wrong because he was told to. But it was all quite fun for him. He liked to drop calls and cause traffic jams (though, only if he wasn't currently _in _the traffic). Sex scandals were great fun to orchestrate. He loved how humans would take the tiniest suggestion and run with it, best interests be damned. Just great fun to watch and manipulate. _Even if_—or maybe especially because—it got on Aziraphale's nerves.

(He loved getting on Aziraphale's nerves, he loved making Aziraphale blush, and he loved getting Aziraphale to laugh at his less-than-holy jokes, and he loved picking the locks and barging into Aziraphale's bookshop, and he loved living on Earth with the angel, and _damn_, he was glad the world hadn't ended. )

--

One of the (many, many) points of being Good was that one was expected to love everything and everyone equally. After all, everything on Earth was either a Child of God, or an invention of a Child of God. This meant that everything—from humans to insects to mountains to skyscrapers—was to be cherished.

Aziraphale had a little trouble with this rule. He knew that favoritism was wrong when it came to love, that love should be fair, but he couldn't help it. There were some things that he held so dearly that he couldn't imagine existing without them, whereas, there were some things that, if they suddenly disappeared, he would merely say _Hmm, I suppose it's all for the greater ineffable good_ and never give it a second thought.

For example, Australia received very little of the angel's love. Modern art, hairstyles, and clothes also tended to be passed over when Aziraphale gave out terms of affection. The men in dark suits who tried to buy his bookshop—_they _were a real thorn in the angel's side. _They _made 'love thy neighbor, love thy enemy' seem impossible.

And, of course, there were things that Aziraphale loved more than he probably should. His aforementioned bookshop, for one. Aziraphale had never felt such a connection to one place before, except for maybe Heaven, but even Up There wasn't as fascinating as the endless volumes held in the bookshelves. It was to the point where the angel couldn't imagine living anywhere else for any large length of time.

He also loved sweater-vests and tartan and ducks. And he loved wine, which he was sure was some kind of minor sin, but he hadn't Fallen yet, so He must not have minded.

And he loved…well, he was much more open about what he loved, but it was still hard to admit…he rather loved his drinking partner. He wasn't quite sure if that was wrong, either. Honestly, love was divine, no matter who the recipient was, right? So, both the angel and demon were man-shaped. So, they were natural enemies. But it wasn't hurting anything, as far as Aziraphale could see. If anything, it was like an extension on The Arrangement. Aziraphale could keep Crowley from doing anything _too _evil with a gentle _Really, dear_ and, on the flip-side, the demon helped the angel to loosen up with little more than a _C'mon, angel._

(To be perfectly honest, it was no secret to Aziraphale, after all, that he very much preferred duck-feeding and heavy drinking when it was with the old serpent. It was no secret to the angel that saving the world would have been much less possible, let alone rewarding, if the demon hadn't helped, or hadn't even wanted to save it, too.)


	5. Fall

They sat on an old couch in the backroom of the bookshop, fully inebriated and still going at it.

Aziraphale stared intently at the bottle in his hand, sighing. "Crowley, dear?"

Crowley took the bottle from the angel and took a deep swig of the wine before answering. "Whah?"

The angel's true-blue eyes were hazy. "What was it like when you Fell?"

The demon paused for a second to give the angel a weary look before taking another swig. "Ya don' need to know."

Aziraphale seemed a little upset by the less-than-answer. "And why not?"

"You're never gonna Fall, Ang."

"I didn't say I thought I would."

"Then ya don' need to know. The only thing tha' comes from knowin' is that it makes ya prepared."

Aziraphale took a long moment to consider that. Then: "Were you prepared?"

Crowley barked out a laugh. "Not. At. _All_. Bloody surprised _me_. I din't even _fight_ in the ruddy Great War. Just hung out wi' the wrong folks and ended up a demon. Jesu—Sat—_damn_, it's like, '_yer not with us, yer against us.'"_

"You weren't with us?" It wasn't a surprise to Aziraphale, just something to say.

"Wasn't with anybody. Stood on the sidelines. Couldn't decide if I agreed with God or Lucifer. Fell."

"Oh." Then: "D'ya wish ya _had _properly sided with one or another?"

"Nah. Evil's fun." He waved towards the angel. "Not that you're not fun. I just like mischief an' stuff. Not so big on killin', though. Never got into the whole killin' shtick. And everybody who Fell during the ruddy Great War really seems to like killin'. I think that if I had properly Fallen, the Lower Downs migh' ask me to start killin'." He made a sour face, and chugged down a good helping of wine straight from the bottle, which refilled itself as soon as he handed it back to the angel.

"I figure it couldn't be too fun. Falling, that is. Sounds like an awful lot of trouble."

"Ruddy lots of trouble," the demon agreed.

And they kept drinking from their never-emptying bottle.


	6. Eden

They stayed in the Garden for a good while after poor old Adam and Eve left. Had to sort a few things out among themselves. Say goodbye.

"I think I'll stay here on Earth for a while," Aziraphale said. "I should keep an eye on them. I've got a bad feeling about that baby she's gotten herself." He gazed past the Gates of Eden and sighed. "It really is too bad—"

"I think I'll ssstay here, too," Crawly agreed. "My sssuperiors might be a little too amused by the 'forever to crawl on your belly in the dussst' thing. Forever my asssss. I'm going to find a loophole, I think. I can't sstay in thisss form. I'll be trampled."

Aziraphale sighed and suddenly scooped the large serpent off the ground. "No one's going to trample you, dear. You'll be just fine." He paused, and rather hesitantly draped Crawly over his shoulders, wanting to keep his hands free. "Let's get out of this forsaken place," he added gloomily.

"You don't have to tell _me _twice."

Still, Aziraphale didn't walk as fast as he could have. He was feeling a bit mournful. It really _was _too bad that the humans couldn't've resisted the serpent's temptations. Now the Garden was lost forever. Neither Aziraphale nor Crawly would ever go back. There'd be no point to it.

The outside world wasn't horrible. It wasn't as beautiful—or as perfect—as Eden, but the humans would survive just fine. It was a good world that He had created. The trees bore good fruit, and the ground was fertile. It would be a good place for the humans to live…and die.

Aziraphale sighed for what seemed like the millionth time. "Those poor dears. They really will need someone to look after them. Someone other than Him. I still think He's just a little bit annoyed with them…"

The snake coiled loosely around the angel's neck, forming a sort of scaly collar. He rested his head on his own back, and contemplated going to sleep. "They didn't _have _to eat the fruit, y'know," Crawly reminded Aziraphale in a vague, almost-apologetic tone. It sounded like the snake didn't want Aziraphale to be _too _angry at him. Orders were orders, after all…

The angel looked out across the land, trying to imagine a happy future for the wayward Children of God. He absent-mindedly patted Crawley's head. "I know that. I'm still allowed to be upset about it. And to try not to strangle me," he added as Crawly unconsciously tightened his coils.

"Don't worry, I won't. Not today. Just don't want to fall off." He paused. "Though, you could put me down. We're out of Eden, after all. I have free reign now, y'know. I can do anything I want."

"Yes, I know. That's what worries me." He gently lifted the snake over his head and placed him on a nearby tree branch.

If Crawly had had eyebrows, he would have raised one. "What about crawling around on my belly and eating dussst?"

Aziraphale blushed, rather wishing that Crawly had not noticed the kind deed. "You aren't the only snake in the world," he explained lamely, grasping at straws. "There are snakes who aren't demons who live in trees, and on the ground, too…Would you _like _to be a snake who lives on the ground?" he added sweetly, reaching for Crawly again, as if to take him off the branch.

The snake shook his head. "No, no, I wouldn't like to be a sssnake _at all._ I'll get down on my own. Later. When I have legsss." He paused, and when he spoke again, he was obviously teasing the angel. "I've never met an angel who would be so kind to the demon that helped ruin all His plans. You'd think an angel would be swifter to smite their Enemy."

Aziraphale smiled. "Perhaps this week has ended on a bad enough note without further violence." It sounded like the sort of lame excuse one used when one had nothing better. Then, his brow furrowed, and his face darkened a shade. "I forgot you were the Enemy for a minute there." He took a step backwards.

Crawly laughed. "Come back here, angel. I'm not done with you."

Aziraphale inched closer, a hesitant smile tugging at his lips, and was rewarded with a swift, extremely playful nip on the earlobe from the snake.

They parted ways soon afterwards.

--

Aziraphale was quite resolved to stay awhile, and it wasn't long before Heaven decided to deem his stay on Earth as Official Heaven Business. His whim became his job. Awhile became a month, then a year, then a decade, and then a few centuries. The Human Race remained small and rather dispersed, and it wasn't too hard for an ethereal being like Aziraphale to keep tabs on them.

They were turning out quite violent, these humans, and none of them appeared to even be able to _imagine _a place like Eden, let alone remember it. (Aziraphale attributed this happenstance to a certain serpent who, though had remained out of sight for these years, was certainly not out of mind.) They couldn't even build cities yet, they were so busy roaming around and hunting.

So the angel roved as well, keeping away from the humans whenever he wasn't actively busy in trying to reform their barbaric ways. He wanted to see His world in its entirety, with or without those silly, malformed humans. They needed to evolve for a while longer, he'd decided.

At the moment, he had wandered into a clearing in a forest several thousand miles away from the nearest human tribe. A large, perfectly round clearing. The strong claws of remorse clenched around the angel's mortal heart as he realized that the clearing looked as though the trees had been plucked right out. The humans didn't have such technology yet, so it had to be His doing. The angel bit his lip. When He said that the humans could never return to Eden, He'd meant it.

The angel suddenly felt quite alone, so he backed away, out of the forsaken, blessed clearing, and leaned up against a wide tree. He closed his eyes and sighed. For the first time in his existence, he felt tired.

And then, just as he was beginning to wonder what sleep felt like, there was pain as teeth closed down on Aziraphale's earlobe. The felt sharp, but distinctly human.

The angel's eyes shot open, and he spun around to seriously chide whatever human had been foolish enough to return to the site of their original sin (and for biting a complete stranger. That was not a good habit to pick up.) But when he met the offending eyes, they were distinctly _not _human. Not brown or green or blue or anything in between. They were _golden_, and the pupils were long, black slits. And they were wicked and instantly recognizable.

"_Crawly_?" the angel gasped, backing up to get a better look at the serpent's new, man-shaped corporation. The body was tall and lanky, and his limps were long and strong-looking, as if he was making up for the time spent without arms or legs. He was pale, and his face was rather angular, and he had black, disheveled hair that fell in front of the aforementioned angular face and golden eyes. He was all-around quite pleasant to look at, if a bit wild-looking. (The fact that he was hanging from a tree branch only added to the wildness.)

The demon smiled, showing off his gleaming teeth. "Not any more. Changed it when I got the new corporation." He jumped down from the branch and landed gracefully on his bare feet, ending up directly in front of Aziraphale. "It's _Crowley _now."

The angel regarded the man-shaped occult entity with mild distaste and even milder amusement. "There's not that big a difference between the two."

The newly-named Crowley grimaced. "That's what _they _said." He gestured vaguely downwards. "Makes a difference to me." His grin returned. "I'm not eating dussssst. I've defied God. I _rock._"

It was Aziraphale's turn to scowl. "Blasphemy," he murmured, and turned away, but he laughed a little. "Limbs give you _such _an ego." He raised an eyebrow. "And _do _try to stop hissing. You're not a snake anymore—it'll scare the humans."

"That would be the _point_, my dear Adversary."

Aziraphale didn't quite seem to know what to say to that. "So…what. You're here to stay, then? On Earth?"

The demon tilted his head so it was closer to Aziraphale's. "So long as you are. My superiors wouldn't allow me to leave their little plaything unprotected from your…_good influence_." He laughed, and leaned in even closer to Aziraphale's red ear. "Oh, and…angel?"

Aziraphale didn't dare move. "What?" he whispered, his voice low as he tried not to blush at the Enemy's close proximity.

There was a growling sound as Crowley leaned in to bite Aziraphale's ear for a third time, a shocked yelp, a smack, a second yelp from a different man-shaped entity, and they didn't see each other again for another decade.


	7. Lust and Love

Aziraphale would have been drinking, but he was reading instead. (He would have been loath to risk dripping anything on his precious books.) As it was, Crowley was drinking enough for the both of them. (It was also enough to kill a small elephant, but that was beside the point.)

They once again found themselves on the soft of the bookshop's backroom, Aziraphale leaning rather contentedly on the arm of the couch, Crowley leaning rather drunkenly on the arm of the angel. His cheek rested heavily on his companion's shoulder, and his reptilian eyes peered casually over the top of his shades to inspect the pages of Aziraphale's book.

"Lusssst," he reported, grinning slightly manically at the romantic scene on the page.

The angel smiled and turned his head slightly until the tip of his nose brushed the demon's forehead. "Love," he disagreed patiently, his breath warm against the demon's skin.

"Oh pleassse. The _author_ wasss probably twitching in his britches when he wrote thissss."

Aziraphale couldn't keep the blush off his face as he read a few lines further. It was easier to ignore the slightly lusty narration when there wasn't a demon breathing down your neck and pointing out all the naughty bits.

"Maybe both?" the angel offered, peacemaking and closing the book. Their faces were close together, he noticed distractedly. He tried to shift away from the demon, but there was nowhere to go, and Crowley was too inebriated to notice. (Or, if he did notice, he was too much of a bastard to sit up.)

The demon considered what the angel said for a few long beats. He finally rolled his eyes and grabbed Aziraphale's hand, squeezing and scratching the unnecessary pulse at his wrist. "Maybe," he conceded finally, slurring vaguely. "But I _ssstill _sssay that all that guy really wantsss at the moment is to get into that girl's pantssss."

"You speak as if from experience."

"I'd be willing to tutor you, if it'sss experienccce you're interested in."

Aziraphale's blush grew deeper and he poured himself back into his book. Fictional lu—lo—_feelings _were much easier to deal with than real ones.

* * *

"We could go to St. James and feed your silly ducks," Crowley offered Aziraphale's back.

"Mmm," was the only response the angel could offer as he busily reorganized a bookcase. He'd recently acquired a few new rare books and his shop was full enough as it was, so he really had to battle to find room for the new arrivals. (He really could have miracled up a bit more space, but he was thinking like a human again, so the idea hadn't occurred to him.)

"We could go to the Ritz," the demon tried again, sauntering closer to the distracted angel.

A plump hand hesitated momentarily on the spine of a particularly ratty old book of false prophecies before moving it to a higher shelf. "It's the middle of the dinner rush, dear. The place'll be packed."

"I could clear out a table."

"Hmm."

Crowley was now standing only a couple feet behind Aziraphale, whose sole attention was still on his books. His voice was a purr, and he leaned in so his words encircled his companion like a cool breeze. "We could go to one of those bakeries you like so much and buy a few pounds of fudge."

Aziraphale's next pause was longer and more considerate. But he mentally waved himself off and muttered, "Gluttony."

Crowley had him now. He leaned forward and placed his hands on either side of Aziraphale's head, making a cage with his arms. The angel sensed the sudden proximity and turned enough that they made eye-contact.

Crowley smirked rather wickedly. "We could go to my flat."

A small sigh that could have been a sigh or a moan escaped Aziraphale's throat. "Lust," he whispered uncertainly, turning more fully towards the demon, his back against the bookcase. It didn't sound like a _no_.

"Love," was Crowley's growling reply before he proceeded in leaning in and proving his point.


	8. Arrangement

**Greece.**

Aziraphale gave the merchant a withering look. "Sir, this is all I have, and I really would like to purchase that scroll right there. Surely we can, er, haggle for a little while longer?"

The burly man crossed his arms. "My price is set. If you cannot meet it, then you may leave and make room for my other customers, _sir._" He gestured towards the street.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. Maybe if he used just a _little _bit of his angelic influence… "Sir, it would be terribly _generous _of you to recon—"

"No one ever said I was generous," the merchant interrupted. "Now get _out _of here."

The angel wrinkled his nose, but left without further argument. He supposed that the fact that these people didn't quite believe in angels yet made them just a little less vulnerable to his influence. He really couldn't wait until monotheism was invented and people got a better sense of Heaven…

He was interrupted from his thoughts when, as he turned down an alley towards his small, shabby home, a dark figure stalked out from under a shadow. It was getting rather dark, so the angel couldn't quite see all of the man's face, but he _could _see a small dagger glinting in the man's fist.

Aziraphale sighed. These humans were just _so _keen on violence nowadays. But here in Athens? Some of the bad aura must have been drifting in from Sparta lately. The angel wondered vaguely if it was due to demonic influence, or if it was purely human. He eyed the dagger across from him and couldn't decide.

The man jabbed said dagger in the said angel's general direction. He was shabbily dressed and wore no sandals, Aziraphale noticed. He also had a small, slight figure. He couldn't be very well-off. "I'll take that coin-purse of yours," he said, and he sounded quite young, closer to a boy than a man.

Aziraphale showed the young mugger his palms, revealing himself to be unarmed. "My dear boy, I haven't enough money to buy a semi-decent scroll at a street-corner cart. I doubt my coin-purse will do you much good."

The man-child ground his teeth. "Do you think I'm joking? Hand it over!!"

The angel had deigned to get through to him. "Come now, all you have to do is ask nicely. There's no need for the weapon. Come now. What—what would Athena say?" He always felt vaguely dirty for calling upon the false gods' influence over the minds of the Greek—but at least they had faith at all, he supposed. He hadn't been smote yet, so he supposed He must have Understood. "Be wise about this."

The boy did pause, but he did not lower his weapon. In fact, he even took a small, faltering step forward…

Aziraphale flinched, but before the would-be mugger had a chance to take a second step, a third man-shaped entity had flown into the alleyway, knocked the boy off his feet, the dagger bouncing back off into the darkness. In the next second, the newcomer was on top of the mugger and slugging him solidly in the face.

This was exactly how long it took for Aziraphale to recognize the new presence, and he didn't react as gratefully as perhaps he should have.

"_Crowley!" _he chided rather shrilly, running forward to tug roughly on the demon's shoulders as said demon continued to pound the young robber's face into the cobblestones. "You're not—I was so close to—you're _hurting _him!!"

The demon, having succeeded in knocking the young man out cold, rounded on Aziraphale and tackled him in turn.

"You'd prefer he hurt you?" he growled, speaking for the first time since his arrival. He socked Aziraphale in the nose, pinning one of the angel's wrists the ground with his free hand, and one knee digging into the angel's thigh.

Aziraphale used his one free hand to grab a fistful of Crowley's long, dark hair and _tug._ "I would _rather _you didn't interfere when I was _this close _to getting him to repent!"

Crowley ground his knee harder into the angel's leg to keep him from squirming—it didn't work, but at least the angel yelped. Even then, though, Aziraphale did not let go of the demon's hair. "Oh please. He was seconds away from stabbing you right in your big, fat gut!" He buried his hand into Aziraphale's curls and fisted right at the roots, pulling mercilessly. "And _no one_ gets to discorporate you—except _me!"_

Aziraphale growled—a decidedly un-angelic noise—and jerked to the side with such strength that the demon fell off of him, and both of them lost a lock of hair at the sudden disconnection. The angel stood quickly and backed away until he leaned against the wall of the nearest building, stridently resisting the urge to kick the demon while he was down.

He sighed as the demon slowly got to his feet, still crouching slightly, a snake coiled to strike at any moment. "Really, Crowley, can we not do this? I'm awfully tired today." He touched the bridge of his nose, healing the broken bone, and resignedly wished the blood that had trickled down his lips away. "I've never seen you so keen on violence. Usually I have to do a bit more to provoke you."

Crowley nodded agreeably. "Been spending a lot of time in Sparta recently. They really like that sort of thing, fighting and grappling for no real reason. It kind of rubs off on you."

The angel delicately raised an eyebrow, silently healing his scalp and re-growing the lost hair. "It seems a bit in excess, I'd say."

The demon shrugged. "Definitely. Not sure how they turned out like that, really."

"Surely you're being modest."

"No, really, all I did was incite a little Wrath in a king a few centuries back, and now we have _that_." He gestured vaguely in the general direction of Sparta. "Quite different from this place. All these books and scholars and shit all over the place. Must be like a Second Heaven to you." The smile he gave his Adversary was almost companionable. Almost.

Aziraphale shrugged. "In some ways."

"Hmm. So. You're totally sure about the whole no discorporating thing today?"

"Yes. I'm sorry; I'm really just not in the mood today."

"Oh, okay. Next time?"

"Maybe. We'll see how I'm feeling then, alright?"

"Fair enough. Do you want to go grab a drink?"

Normally, Aziraphale would have been more than happy to guzzle down a few bottles of wine, with or without the demon, but his head was still bleeding and throbbing from their scuffle, so he shook his head. "No. I'm just going to go home." He turned slightly to leave, but Crowley's voice stopped him.

"Going to take a nice nap?" The words themselves were serpentine, curling around the angel's throat, stealing whatever goodbyes that might have come out.

He sputtered, and his nostrils flared. "You know I don't sleep. Even if I did, why on Earth would I let you know? You'd probably just rip my throat out in my sleep." He crossed his arms.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Always so quick to judge. We said no discorporations today, didn't we?"

"Forgive me if I don't quite trust you."

Crowley said nothing for a moment as he considered that with a scowl. Then: "So, what _are _you going to do?" For a moment, he considered adding _if you don't mind my asking_, but thought better of it.

Aziraphale gave him a withering look. "If you _must _know, I'm planning to inspire a few people to start a peace rally soon."

Crowley winced. "I wouldn't bother with that, angel. War is coming. I'd suggest getting out of Greece for a while. I think this one is going to be big." He splayed out his arms as if that would help the angel to see just how big this war would be. "Like, really big."

"Then, by all means, I should _stay _and do what I can to—"

"To get killed?"

"—to _help._"

The demon shook his head. "Doubt you'll be able to. Things are changing. Or, they aren't. Sparta and Athens have always fought, but I think this'll be their last war. In a bad way. You should leave."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes this time. "I can't just _leave_ when I could be helping the ones that _don't _want the war that you're heralding. Why do you care if I stay, anyway? If I'm killed in a riot or an invasion—"

"_Because_," the demon hissed, and then he was directly in front of Aziraphale, toe-to-toe, his hand clamping down on the back of the angel's neck. "Like I sssssaid. Your arse is _mine_, angel. No one elsssse is allowed to kill you. Get it?"

Aziraphale really _wasn't _in the mood. "Got it," he said, and socked Crowley hard enough in the gut that it knocked the unnecessary wind out of the demon, and Aziraphale was able to get away while Crowley gasped.

**--**

A short while later, Crowley found himself turning a peace rally into a riot. The Athenians felt the danger coming from their Spartan neighbors, and were reacting badly. Mob psychology hadn't been named yet, but Crowley knew how it worked. It took only a few overly vehement shouts to get the entire crowd up in arms against each other.

Aziraphale watched in horror from the sidelines as people senselessly and suddenly began screaming and fighting and breaking things. Only one person stood calmly amidst it all. A tall, lean person with reptilian yellow eyes that were looking directly at the forlorn angel.

Or rather, the previously forlorn angel. Now, it was the furious angel. _This _was why they never share their business plans with each other! The damned snake couldn't help but _interfere!!_*

The angel gnashed his teeth. _There ought to be __**a rule**_**,** he thought petulantly before running to join the mob.

He'd invested in a small knife since his last meeting with the demon. He held it loosely behind his back as he approached Crowley. He put on a chiding expression, and a hand on the demon's shoulder.

"My dear," he said, shaking his head with disappointment in such a familiar way that the tension left his Adversary's shoulders. The demon was going to say something teasingly sarcastic, but Aziraphale interrupted him. "Please remind me."

"Of what, angel?"

"Whose arse belongs to whom?"

Crowley had just enough time to look mildly confused before Aziraphale proceeded in discorporating him. People were falling left and right—one more surprised-faced corpse would make no difference.

The angel sighed, suddenly feeling quite tired, went home, and got wasted. He never really felt better after killing Crowley. He wondered why he kept doing it, then.

* * *

* Granted, if the demon had planned a riot, the angel would have been quick to interfere and turn it into a peace rally, but that was beside the point.

* * *

**Rome.**

The next time they saw each other, Greece was Rome, and Aziraphale had nearly been killed thrice in the times of conquest.

Crowley opted not to sneak up on the angel this time, but instead approached him out in the open, in a crowded town square.

Aziraphale looked blessedly apologetic and a little ashamed when he met the demon's eyes for the first time since discorporating him in Athens. "You were right about the war," he said by way of greeting.

"I know."

"And about things changing." He gestured vaguely towards all of Rome in general.

"Tried to warn you. Too bad you don't trust me." The bitterness in his voice was not very well-hidden at all.

"I…it was a sin to kill you," the angel murmured.

Crowley tilted his head to one side. "I'm not sure '_Thou shalt not kill' _applies to your Eternal Enemy."

The angel smiled meekly. "Perhaps it doesn't. But I still embraced a Deadly Sin. Wrath."

"Divine Wrath?"

"Not quite."

"Oh." A beat. "So…you're apologizing? For killing me? You've killed me before and never thought twice about it. Isn't it your job to smite me, anyway?"

"A very minor detail. My job is compassion. My job is inspiration. Smiting the wicked…is less important. Besides, I never quite get rid of you, now do I? I get a few decades to myself, and then it's back to grappling with you. Don't you ever get tired of all that?" His celestial blue eyes were wide and reasonable, and he hoped that the demon had been thinking along the same lines.

Crowley had, in fact, but he wasn't in the mood to give Aziraphale what he wanted. "One of your jobs _is _to thwart, though. How would you thwart my wiles without killing me?"

Aziraphale shrugged. That'd been the least of his concerns. "Through His power and through the power of my greater Will?"

Crowley ground his teeth, not quite wanting to talk about Willpower. "Okay, well, yeah, I get what you're saying, but…er. Let's not do anything official. Yet, I mean. Let's give it a few centuries. Maybe you're just bummed out about losing Athens. If you still feel like this later, we'll talk." He shuffled his feet, suddenly uncomfortable. Somehow, talking about not killing managed to make him think that he was about to _be _killed.

The angel looked a little disappointed, but not surprised, though he did feel a little silly. Of course the demon wouldn't want to stop fighting. He was a _demon_.

"Right. Of course, you're right. Never mind."

"Er. Would you like to come back to my place? Get plastered?"

The angel raised a single golden eyebrow. "You do enjoy doing that, don't you?"

"It's the only time I'm sure you won't try to ki—er, I mean. Hardly ever get to see you laugh unless you're wasted. That's what I mean." _Yeah,_ Crowley thought, _think of a reason to not kill each other right after you say you're not sure you want to stop killing each other. Consistent._

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes then and didn't even oblige the demon by laughing. "Yes, well. Well. Why not?"

* * *

**Constantinople.**

Much, much later, as in sever centuries later, as in the beginning of the 11th Century, Aziraphale Sat in the Sitting Room of the angel's Constantinople home, drinking.

"It really is quite nice of you to visit, dear," the angel said, his cheeks pink and his eyes hazy. "But doesn't it hurt to be so surrounded by Christy—Chrishy—Jesus-freaks?"

The demon cackled. "Only on Sssssunday morningsss, if even then. As long as I don't get too closssse to any templesss, I'll be fine."

"You're hissing, Crowley," Aziraphale informed him, smiling widely.

"I know. It happensss when I'm drunk."

"I'm drunk, too!" the angel giggled, taking another swig.

"I've noticed." He paused. "You know what else I've noticed?"

"What?" The angel's eyes grew huge and he leaned towards the demon from across the table.

"We haven't discop—dicsporc—_killed _each other in a while."

The angel nodded unsteadily. "Yes, I've noticed, too. Isn't it nice, staying the same body for so long? I've quite gotten used to this one." He touched his own fevered cheek, and suddenly he winced, and his expression was quite sober. "I do like not dying, not killing. It suits me."

The demon hesitantly sobered himself up and gave the angel a wary look. "I like it, too. I can do so much more tempting when I don't have to spend decades at a time fighting Hell's bureaucracy to get a new corporation."

"So. So…we're in agreement that it's better for all included not to discorporate one another?"

"Yes, I'd say so."

The angel turned his eyes Heavenward. "Interesting."

Crowley saw where he was going with this, and he grinned. "So. I'm assuming you'd like to make it into an official Arrangement?"

Aziraphale gave the demon a wry smile. "Now _there's _an idea. I wonder why I didn't think of it myself."

"Because you're absolutely daft and I'm the only beacon of light and reason you have."

Aziraphale laughed, open and sincere. "Besides God, of course."

Crowley laughed, too, enjoying the sound of Aziraphale's sober chuckle. "Of course. Now. Business. Let's discuss the Arrangement idea…"


	9. 15 Years and we're still here

"How much longer do you think it'll last?" Crowley asked suddenly, looking up from his unnecessary meal.

Aziraphale paused mid-bite to give Crowley a strange look, but didn't reply until he'd swallowed the entire chunk of turkey breast. "How much longer do I think _what _will last, my dear?" he asked in the patient tone of someone who was used to such vague questions.

"You know. It. Everything. The world. Being." Aziraphale imagined that the eyes behind the sunglasses were quite wide.

The angel didn't quite know _what _he thought about that, so he shrugged and said, "I haven't the faintest idea, dear. I suppose it's up to Adam. He started the whole mess last time, didn't he?"

"_Sort of_, I guess. _They _started it, really," he said, furtively pointing towards the sky, and then quickly to the ground. He then threaded his fingers in front of him on the table, hoping neither of _Them_ noticed his references. _They _had steadily avoided contacting Aziraphale and Crowley in the last fifteen years , so our heroes were hopeful that They were simply sweeping the whole ordeal under the rug and letting Earth exist uninterrupted. It was more than possible that They wanted to keep the renegades out of all plans, but perhaps They _weren't _going to try again to destroy the world…One could only hope…

"But Adam—he's the catalyst, isn't he? It's his decision, isn't it?"

Crowley shrugged just a little sullenly.

"I do hope it is. Adam seems like such a good boy, and he doesn't seem to keen on ending the world, either. I daresay he likes it as much as we do." He paused to take a small sip of his wine, and a little wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows. "I wonder what will happen, if the world doesn't end. Will it last forever? Because, you know teachers are saying nowadays—they're thinking that the sun is going to expand and eat up the four inner planets."

"I wouldn't fret about that," Crowley replied, fiddling absently with a maddening loose string on the cuff of his sleeve. "I doubt They'd let anything destroy the world besides Themselves." He paused. "And even then, the sun wouldn't touch Earth for another several billion years, if not more."

"Ah, right. I forgot about that part."

"Who told you that paranoid bit of drivel, anyway?"

"Oh. Er, Anathema and Newt's girl. Lucy."

Crowley snorted. "Lucy Lucifer?"

"_Pulsifer_, dear. After so long you'd think a joke would run dry."

Crowley said nothing, and they both laughed, because the nickname suited the girl more than her parents would like to admit.

"I still can't believe you're _tutoring _the little terror, though. I mean, I could understand you helping out when she was little, but she's _teenaged _now. She's only going to get scarier."

They shared a shudder at memories at a teenaged The Them (quite a different group than _Them_, but you understand). "I think it's just her mother's psychic powers manifesting themselves in her in an imbalanced way…after all, half her genes _are _Newt's…" A second shudder. "It's ineffable. The girl is moody, has been since she was born. But don't try telling me you know anyone better than me to give her extra history lessons."

Crowley just smiled his wicked smile. "Oh, no, you're right. After all, you've seen everything from the Beginning to the Not-Quite-End to the…er…Indefinite-Stage-in-which-We-Now-Find-Ourselves." His smile weakened.

The angel frowned. "Oh, _Crowley."_

"Sorry, I forgot we were trying to Not Talk about it."

Aziraphale sighed. "It's just as well. One can only avoid a topic for so long…"

Crowley emptied his glass of wine in one long gulp—it refilled itself by the time he set it back down on the table. "I rather hope it _does _take several billion years for things to end, though, if it has to end at all. Six thousand hardly seems enough."

"Six thousand is a perfectly large number," Aziraphale replied reasonably.

"But not _enough_," Crowley insisted, hoping that he was simply feeling Greedy and Covetous and Not Sentimental.

"True," the angel murmured and nibbled on his food, not really tasting it but appreciating the fact that body didn't like to chew and talk at the same time. He rather felt like just listening to Crowley.

The demon sensed the readiness to listen and felt in himself a readiness to ramble. "I mean, there are just a lot of things I would miss, I think, if things ended now or soon. Like my Bentley and my houseplants. And coffee. And Armani. And the Ritz." As if to illustrate his point, he sipped more wine. "And music."

"They don't have music in Hell?"

"Not unless you count screams of agony and terror to be music to your ears."

The angel's celestial eyes narrowed. "I do not."

"Then, nope. No music, unless a composer gets a break from whatever torture they've been enduring…which isn't often. Hmm. What else? Ah, yes. I'd miss booze."

"There's no alcohol in Hell?"

"So many people go to Hell for things they've done while drunk. Do you really think we'd reward them with _more _booze?"

Aziraphale coughed guiltily and furtively sipped at his glass of newly-manifested water. "Ah. Quite right. And that's it?"

"Pttf. Not even. Angel, I could fill a bloody book with things I'd miss." He paused, and his sunglasses appeared to grow darker as his gaze lost some of its intensity. "I doubt it would sell very well, though."

"Why not?"

Crowley shrugged. The angel probably didn't want to hear that it would include things like causing traffic jams and dropped calls. "It'd be long," he said truthfully.

Aziraphale's lips curved into a small, infinitely kind smile. "Perhaps it would be easier to write a book about things you _wouldn't _miss."

Crowley grinned crookedly. "That still wouldn't sell, because anyone religious would just burn it."

Aziraphale deflated. He understood why his friend wouldn't miss things like crucifixes or Bibles, but it was still a little disappointing to hear out loud. "I see. It makes sense, I suppose, that wouldn't miss anything Holy…"

The demon flinched and took another swig of wine. He really wasn't drunk enough for this conversation. He should have waited until they were safely plastered in the backroom of the angels' bookshop. Ah, well. There was no stopping it now. He took another drink of liquid courage.

"That's not entirely what I meant. I mean, I would miss _you_, of course." He was thankful for his sunglasses and their ability to allow him to not meet the angel's gaze.

"Me?" said Aziraphale, blushing just a little and smiling.

"Well, yeah. I mean, we live on Earth. If Earth suddenly didn't exist anymore, we'd have to go back to Hell and Heaven. Not only that, but there's the whole 'one-of-us-has-to-win' thing. Y'know, with the War." He scowled. "Which means, not only would we be separated, but one of us would have to _die. _Neither one of us can survive in the other's realm, after all."

Aziraphale felt very human—yet somehow ageless—tears pricking at the corners of his eyes at the thought. He said nothing.

Something they had not discussed but both felt during the original Not-Quite-End was the fact that they dearly did not want to be separated. Material things would always pass, but neither could imagine the other passing, as well. That would be too painful. An excess. A reason to Question Ineffability.

"So, really, there's only three ways we could possibly stay together, if the end comes." Crowley suddenly removed his sunglasses and looked his ageless friend right in his blessed sparkling eyes. "I would have to be Redeemed, you would have to Fall, or the World would have to Not End." What he did not say but thought quite loudly was, _I don't know how possible the first one is, I'd rather discorporate the both of us before letting the second happen, so I think the third is the only source of hope __**we **__have._

They shared a long, sober silence.

"Well," Aziraphale finally said. "Well. Let's just hope that Adam's fondness of the world is as strong as ours, shall we?"

And then he spoke in an ancient, private, dead language that only he and the demon could speak anymore. "_I would miss you as well, my dear. I would miss you more than anything else."_ The language was like water and like wind and never failed in making Crowley shudder.

The demon replied in the same secret tongue_, _his eyes glowing a deep, metallic gold. "_I suppose you already know how I feel about you."_

"_Yes, I do, and I'm so glad for it. You should know that it is the same for me."_

They both smiled, and Crowley reverted back to English. "Let's get out of here. This isn't the place to get as drunk as I would like, let alone do all the weird things with my tongue as I'm imagining I would like to do."

The angel blushed. "I quite agree."

They left then. Crowley paid, but Aziraphale left a tip large enough to make up for the fact that Crowley always got away with not quite paying enough. Their fingers brushed as they walked back to the Bentley, and the sun set on another Not-the-Last-Day-of-the-World.

And somewhere in Lower Tadfield, a 26-year-old Adam Young finally got over a strange bout of sneezing.


	10. Words

Crowley, being both a demon and a little bit of a coward, took a few decades to _say _it once he realized he _felt _it.

Luckily for Aziraphale, Crowley was good at _showing _it.

With little gestures, unusually kind words, and subtle touches that became increasingly frequent and decreasingly subtle, he was able to illustrate the distinctly un-demonic sensations that welled up deep inside his Being whenever he was near his angel.

Being an angel, it was not difficult for Aziraphale to say the sacred words, but he was kind and only said them under Very Certain Circumstances and did not pressure the demon into repeating them. The angel was patient.

A little over thirty years after the non-Apocalypse, when the demon finally got up the courage to speak the words that nearly disqualified him from being a demon, Aziraphale accepted them with a kind, gentle sort of smile. He showed Crowley the Mercy of not making a big production out of it, chose not say anything. This first, mumbled confession was the greatest outstretch of trust that the demon could offer—Aziraphale would cease to be before he dared abuse it or take it for granted.

"I love you."

* * *

**_(A/N)_**

**_An honest-to-Someone doubledrabble. I'm so proud! XD I don't think I could have made this any more cheesy if somebody paid me! Yay!_**


	11. Fall, Part Deux

Memories, Crowley found, were quite like any other Earthly indulgence. Very nice in small doses, but not something to really spend too much time focusing on, especially if there was something more important to be doing at the moment.

But one can't rightly control the subconscious, now can they? There were some days when Crowley felt downright nostalgic, and the smallest things could act as catalysts for reminiscing.

He didn't mind, usually. He had some very pleasant memories in which to indulge here on Earth. Sure, there was the occasional human atrocity or the odd act of Divine Wrath, but one learned to block memories that one found distasteful after a few millennia.

It was the memories that didn't take place on Earth that bothered him. Or, as it often happened, the lack thereof.

For example, his time as an angel in Heaven was a long, ineffable blur. He vaguely remembered clouds and sunlight and of a feeling of being deeply and truly Loved, and he remembered Smiles, but very few specific, cemented details. Of course, if he looked back on it now, he remembered that it was all rather boring compared to life on Earth, but that was from the eyes of a demon who knew better now. As an angel, he supposed that he'd been quite satisfied with the whole thing. But he couldn't remember exactly _what _it was that he'd been so satisfied with. The demonic majority of his subconscious fizzled and hissed at such holy, pure memories, so his idea of Heaven remained decidedly negative. (Never mind that Aziraphale tended to agree with his ideas. That was another matter entirely.)

Now, his Fall—that was something else altogether. His subconscious had preserved _that _with extreme care.

As much Sauntering as he had done, there had still been a moment when he'd been walking too close to a precipice and Tripped, and for a long, eternal instant, properly Fell. He could distinctly remember the shock of Losing his Footing, of being too close to the ground to unfurl his wings and glide Back Up. _Too late_, an unfamiliar, despair-ridden voice crowed inside his head as he Tumbled Unceremoniously out of the sky, into Hell. He had the distinct memory of someone yelling "_NO!" _in the background, but he didn't know who. The voice had been muffled by the wind rushing past his ears, and by the sobs rushing past his lips.

He'd been a mess when he had Landed. Of course, none of the other Fallen Angels had helped heal the bones that had been broken and crushed upon impact. Demons just didn't _do that_.

He'd gotten his first taste of sleep then, when he'd passed out. When he'd woken up, memories of Up There were already beginning to blur, as if someone had splashed the page of a book, and they were too painful for him to try to recall. The despair of losing the Light, the Love, had nearly put him back into a coma. The shock of seeing his chocolate-brown curls turn to straight black locks, his golden-green eyes turn to the yellow eyes of a reptile that hadn't even been invented yet, and his pale white-blue wings turn the shade of midnight is what did the job. He couldn't help if appearances had always mattered to him. Vanity was a sin, after all…

He shuddered. Really, _really _best not to dwell on the past. Much better to live in the moment.

Especially since, at the moment, Aziraphale's well-manicured hands were doing some marvelous things to the demon's bare shoulders. He was very good with his hands, that angel. Crowley often wondered if his ability to find all the right, stiff knots and smooth them out was some sort of angelic and instinctual version of Mercy, or if he had just taken a massage class somewhere.

Crowley turned his head slightly to ask this very question, but what came out instead was: "Do you resent me?"

Aziraphale's plump fingers froze instantly on the demon's shoulders. His blue eyes were wide. "_What? _Whatever for?"

Crowley shrugged, arching slightly into the angel's warm touch. He looked away, wondering where this had come from. "You know," he said, trying to sound flippant and casual, "for Falling. For being a demon."

Aziraphale hesitated. "Do you mean to ask 'do I' or 'have I ever' resented you?"

"Either," Crowley said. And then he changed his mind: "Both."

Aziraphale laughed and kissed the top of the demon's head. "Well, at the moment, the last thing I'm feeling towards you is _resentment_, so that answers that question. As for the past…" He resumed rubbing the demon's shoulders and back, working the hard, taut muscles into supple jelly. "Well, I was more often frightened of what you are than resentful of it."

"You were frightened of me?" There was just the barest hint of amusement in his voice, and Aziraphale forced him to groan by kneading the heel of his hand especially hard into the knot of a muscle.

"Not you specifically, my dear. You yourself are not especially terrifying, no offence."

"Ngk. None taken."

"Mm. It was just—well, there was always such awful anti-demonic propaganda in Heaven after the War, you know. Sure, we're supposed to love our neighbor and our enemy and all that, but I was always told that too great a familiarity with demons could corrupt me, lead to my own Fall. Of course, I know now that that isn't true, but in the first few centuries…oh yes, it terrified me to be stuck on the same planet as you…I suppose I'm just lucky you're not quite a traditional demon, aren't I?"

Crowley said nothing. He was having trouble picturing Aziraphale particularly _afraid _of anything—he also couldn't picture Aziraphale plummeting from the clouds, his wings staining a deep blood-red, his halo fizzling into flames that would be blown out in moments. He _certainly _couldn't picture himself having a hand in either instance.

He managed to say as much. "You know I would never to anything to make you Fall, Ang."

"Yes, I know. But I didn't back then. That's all I'm saying."

"But you've never resented me?"

Aziraphale hesitated again. "I…er."

All the muscles in the demon's back that Aziraphale had managed to relax tensed up all over again in less than a second. "You _have?"_

"Really, dear, not _you specifically. _Just the Fallen in general, I swear. You don't understand what it was like after the last Fell. Heaven was a mess—everybody was simultaneously trying to mourn and ignore the happenings. The Metatron—he said that God didn't Smile for a whole month after It Happened." There was an unusual, desperate edge to the angel's voice. "So, yes, for a brief expanse of time after the last Fell, I was _extremely _resentful. I didn't understand how anyone could cause Him such pain, and not even _apologize."_ The fingers one Crowley's shoulders had long since ceased movement—now, they clenched in barely-contained rage and hurt.

Crowley whined. "I'm sssorry," he muttered under his breath, and it was enough to bring Aziraphale back to his senses. His grips loosened, and he just placated himself by brushing his palms across the demon's bare back.

"No, my dearest, I'm sorry." He allowed them to sit in a comfortable silence for a minute or two, and then said, "You know, I've always thought that humans were His way of trying to get it right. To see if He could make something that wouldn't be corrupted."

Crowley winced and wiggled his way out from beneath the angel's hands. He faced Aziraphale with no small amount of guilt in his snake-eyes. "But—you resent people who cause Him pain. Angel—_I tempted Eve._ I'm the sole contributor to the humans being cast out from Eden. If you're right, if He was trying to get it right with the humans, then _I'm _the one who ruined it for Him. You must resent me for that."

Aziraphale had to smile. "I know all that. I've thought about it, though, and…Well, I'm _glad _it was you."

Crowley floundered. "_What?"_

Aziraphale shrugged, looking away. "Well, to begin with, I've honestly come to believe that Adam and Eve were going to eat the fruit no matter what anyone did. Whether it was because of you, or some other demon, or simply their own curiosity, I believe it was Fated for humans to learn the difference between Good and Evil. Look at this world." He spread his arms, gesturing towards all of Earth in one fell swoop. "It's beautiful, and it's interesting. Sure, some of the people have been corrupted…" He pointedly avoided Crowley's eyes. "…But the greater majority _tries so hard _to be good, because they know what it _means _to be good."

"But I don't—"

"And really, if any other demon had tempted Eve, if anyone else had been stationed here on Earth with me…I don't know how long I would have been able to stay here on Earth, assignment or no assignment. I probably would have transferred out long ago…or at least, I never would have ever _considered _creating an Arrangement with any other demon…"

"No other demon would have considered it, either."

"Yes, you see? That's my point. That spark of goodness—that's what makes you special. You're different from other demons. Sometimes, I think that maybe…_maybe _it _was _the right thing to do when you tempted her. And it wouldn't have been if any other demon had done it. Because no other demon would have thought that maybe it was…"

Crowley had to flinch away. The angel had obviously given this a lot of thought. He wished he could give something back, offer words of equal truth and affection. But Aziraphale knew how he felt already—he couldn't bring himself to say just how glad he was that he'd gotten stuck on Earth with the only Non-Fallen-Bastardy-Angel. His lips couldn't form the words, not aloud, not now.

His lips could do something else, though, something that had long since become familiar and welcome. With silent lips, he told the angel everything he couldn't say, and the angel replied, just as silently, _Thank you._


	12. Christmas

It was most decidedly _not _December the twenty-fifth. It wasn't even winter. It was quite nice out, actually, Crowley thought as he sidled up against the barn wall. He paused a moment and looked furtively up at the crisp, clear night sky, and noted that the stars were particularly bright that night, especially that one quite conspicuously positioned over the barn.

But maybe that was just Him ensuring that His Son had a pleasant birth-day, seeing as the rest of the boy's life was pretty much going to be nothing but Hardship, capitol H intended and deserved. At least, it would be if prophets were anything to go by. Crowley had given enough would-be prophets enough false visions to know that they weren't always as reliable as the faithful liked to claim.

It was much easier to snigger at false prophets as he got closer and closer to the entrance of the barn than to actually think about what he was doing. He wasn't here officially, not on business from Hell. He wasn't sure _why _he was here, actually. If pressed he might admit that a small part of him wanted to see this baby that everyone had been—still was—so excited about, this King of Kings that old Herod was so upset about. But Crowley was very rarely pressed, so he admitted no such thing.

He'd heard rumors that close proximity to the Christ Child would result in the instant and permanent demise of any demon of lower rank than Duke, but Crowley put very little merit into such rumors. Humans liked to say _a lot _of things could kill demons, and very few things actually had such power. (Fewer still in that Holy Water had yet to be invented.)

Besides, he considered as he poked his head into the stable where the Holy Family was sleeping, he'd been in closer proximity to a full-grown angel than he planned to get to the Son, so really there shouldn't be any danger—

And then he was promptly tackled by that very angel, who very desperately did not want a demon getting any closer to the baby—decidedly not out of fear of the demon's instant and permanent demise, mind you.

The violent reaction on the angel's behalf was rather a vague disappointment to Crowley—of late, they'd become less and less likely to kill one another every time they met up. He supposed this was just bad timing all around. Nothing for it, really.

"What are you _doing _here?!" the angel growled at the same time that the demon shouted, "What the _Hell?!"_

Aziraphale blanched and stood with a huff. "Quiet," he admonished in a harsh whisper. "You'll wake the baby."

"No I won't," said Crowley as he stood, rubbing the back of his head, which had hit the ground rather hard in that little encounter.

"You will if you keep shouting," Aziraphale insisted, poking his head worriedly into the little building.

"No, I _won't_," the demon repeated, sauntering up beside the angel to peek in as well. It wasn't particularly hard to look inside, as there was apparently no fourth wall, but Crowley felt in less danger of dissolving if he creeped about.

The angel gave him an odd look. "You didn't freeze them, did you?" he asked, clearly distressed. "Your demonic powers shouldn't be able to affect them! They're the Holy Family!"

"Actually, a few of them are shepherds," Crowley corrected, pointing to the corner where said shepherds slept forcibly soundly. "Besides, they're all human. Why shouldn't I be able to affect them?"

Aziraphale looked stricken, at a loss. "But they're—er. He, the baby…he's going to be sinless, you know. He _will _be completely outside your jurisdiction."

"Will he," Crowley mumbled dryly, peering at the bundle of blankets in the manger. "That's hard to believe. Poor bastard won't have any free will at all, will he?"

"That's not it," the angel replied, leaning against the doorframe, gazing at the baby rather wistfully. "He's just going to be perfect, that's all. He won't feel any desire, not the slightest urge, to sin. That's more than can be said for any angel," he added a little guiltily. "And don't call him a bastard."

"I only mean it as a technical term. Immaculate conception is still considered to be out of wedlock." He looked pointedly at who he could only assume was Joseph, thinking, _I can understand why he wanted to divorce her, the poor sod. _

Aziraphale blushed and averted his eyes. "It's still unbelievably disrespectful." But he smiled when he looked back at the baby. "But I suppose you have an understandable reason for not liking him. He's going to cause an awful lot of trouble for you and your business endeavors, I must imagine."

Crowley scoffed. "I doubt it," he lied.

Aziraphale said nothing. They stood in an oddly peaceful silence for a few minutes, until Crowley quite suddenly realized that Aziraphale's wings were out.

"So have you been guardian-angel-ing it up tonight, Aziraphale?" he teased.

Aziraphale gave him a look that was more tolerant than amused, but amused nonetheless. "Why not? It's not every day that the Son of God is born. It's rather an honor to be so close to him. I heard from Gabriel that hardly any of the other angels could believe that He would ever…" He trailed off, seeming to realize what it was that he was saying, and a look of pain crossed his face.

"Ever send His little tyke down to die?" Crowley finished with no small amount of acid in his tone. The angel's frown deepened.

"You do tend to focus on the negative, don't you?" he said. "You should be more optimistic."

"I'm very optimistic. But that kid's life is set in stone, and does not exactly call for optimism, does it?"

Aziraphale bit his lower lip. "But think of all the good he'll bring to the world…"

"Yep, and all he has to do is give his life in one of the most painful ways imaginable."

Aziraphale coughed politely. "He knows that, I'm sure. He can't afford to be selfish…"

"A lot of stress for a five-hour-old, don't you think? I can't wait until he reaches his teenage rebellion stage. That'll be fun."

Aziraphale obviously couldn't imagine His Son anything close to rebellious, and did not catch the sarcasm. "What? No it won't! Didn't I just tell you he's going to be perfect?"

Crowley's eye twitched, humor forgotten. "And didn't I just tell you that he's _human?_I'm not saying he's going to go around starting fights and using foul language—I just refuse to believe that He would deny His Son a normal-ish life before he has to start performing miracles and getting himself crucified!"

Presently, a tiny sneeze sounded from the stable, ending the conversation. Crowley dove backwards into the shadows, while Aziraphale shot in the opposite direction, rushing right up to the side of the manger. Crowley had vaguely expected the angel to start glowing from such close proximity to the Divine Child, but no such thing occurred. Aziraphale's face remained in the dark, if a bit flustered.

"Oh look what we've done," the angel muttered. "All this talking about him made the poor thing sneeze."

"He's a baby, angel," the demon said, not moving any closer. "I'm not convinced that superstitions really have any power over him yet. It's probably just the dust, or the hay."

Aziraphale ignored that statement and looked over to where Crowley stood and gave him a gentle smile that the demon had only seen a few times in the last 4,004 years, usually directed towards scrolls, not himself. "I told you that you didn't have any influence over him, you old serpent. Now do stop hiding. You did come here to see him, didn't you?"

Crowley hesitated, unnerved. The last few times he'd spent any substantial amount of time speaking civilly with the angel like this, they'd both ended up stinking drunk. When that failed, they discorporated each other, or at least got close. There was no alcohol on hand and it would be rather inappropriate to kill each other in front of the Christ Child, even by demonic standards. They _had_ had more and more peaceful interactions in the last few thousand years, but it still wasn't official. They could snap at any time… So, Crowley really didn't know what to think here.

So he _didn't _think as he approached the manger and the angel, keeping his face a hard mask. The mask, however, felt inclined to slip off as soon as he _saw _the blessed thing for the first time. It really was just a regular human baby with dark, thin, wispy hair and mud-brown eyes. Not such an uncommon-looking babe at all, really.

That is, if you excluded the fact that Jesus was looking up at the angel and demon with greater focus than any newborn had any right to possess. More than focus, there was _emotion _in the baby's face—at the moment, pure and palpable compassion emanated from the child.

It shook Crowley to the core. For just a brief instant, he remembered the all-encompassing Love he'd always felt in Heaven, and it was all wrapped up in this little baby. It endeared him to the child, and for a moment, he _honestly _wished he could save it from all the pain he would unavoidably endure during his time on Earth. The unbidden protectiveness was too much; he had to look away to break the spell.

Aziraphale did not seem to notice Crowley's inner turmoil. He was still cooing over the holy infant, saying nonsense like, "Oh look, he has his mother's eyes, but that's definitely his Father's nose!" Crowley couldn't very well remember His nose, so he marked it down as the angel being caught up in the moment. Even Jesus' expression was now as though he was only indulging the angel by being adorable.

"He's going to change the world, you know," Aziraphale finally said, looking at Crowley at last. "That's why he came. Not to be human—to _save _them."

The Lamb's head wiggled solemnly.

"So of course that means he can't have a life of his own."

The Rock of Ages averted his gaze politely, meaning something along the lines of '_Oh my, don't start fighting again, it's not important.'_

"No, that's _not _what it means! Why are you so offended by this whole business, anyway? What does it have to do with you?"

"Dunno, maybe I'm just having problems picturing this baby on a cross."

The Son of God winced. They'd come full circle and had started all over again. Why couldn't they just be distracted by his cuteness for a while longer?

"I don't like it any more than you do, demon, but it's part of the Ineffable Plan! He knows that, I wager," Aziraphale insisted, gesturing towards the Messiah.

'_Hey, leave me out of this,'_ Jesus tried to say, but it came out as an easily-ignorable gurgle.

They easily ignored him. "I'm _sick _of the Ineffable Plan. And you know what? I don't think this is going to end as great as you think it will. I can think of some pretty bad things this kid'll bring."

The Immanuel looked intrigued, if vaguely worried.

"What could you possibly be talking about? He's going to bring people closer to God, to Heaven. You know, the whole Peace on Earth and Goodwill Towards Men business. I can imagine how that all might be a bad thing to _you_, but—"

"Holy Wars," Crowley said oddly casually, wiggling a finger lazily in front of the Redeemer's chubby face. "Religious fanatics." He paused and allowed his demonic aura to reach a bit farther into the future. _"Commercialism." _

Aziraphale gasped and Jesus looked as offended as a peace-loving infant could. '_Alright, enough with discussing my Destiny as if I'm not in the room,' _he said with a sadly unintelligible coo.

And, as the angel and demon still didn't seem to understand, the Prince of Peace opened his tiny, adorable mouth and started to cry. Loudly. Big, fat tears ran down his very human face, and, as hoped and expected, Aziraphale and Crowley froze, looked from each other to the wailing Lamb and back again. They promptly wished themselves elsewhere.

Crowley's spell broken, a very tired Mary—who had been enjoying the nap, thank you very much—sat up unsteadily and placed a hand on her son's chest, looking down on him with all the gentleness she could muster. Which was a lot.

"Baby, shh, what's wrong? Are you hungry, baby? Shh, come here, I've got you—I won't let anything hurt you, don't cry. My baby, my baby…"

She gently lifted her baby, her baby out of his sad little trough-crib and began to feed him, humming a small tune and smiling.

--

Crowley never explained outright why he was so against the Plan as far as Jesus concerned. However, once, when he and Aziraphale were quite inebriated in the spring of 10 A.D., Crowley said something that made just a bit of sense.

"Y'know," said Crowley, "I don't think anyone even remotely divine hassss a choiccccce when it comessss to shit like dessstiny."

"Well, that's why it's called destiny, don't'cha think?" the angel replied, voice somehow managing to sound soggy.

"'Snot fair. People should have choiccces."

"They _do_. Don't you always say that people have choices? Like Adam an' Eve."

"Yeah, but…_you_ _an'_ _me_don't have choiccces. Not 'ny big onesss, 'nyway. We gotta do like we gotta do…_oooor elsssse._And that Jesusss kid. Poor bassstard ain't got 'ny choiccce about 'nything. An' he doesn't even think to _mind._Bassstard."

Aziraphale said nothing, just drank. That statement had almost been compassionate, he thought, for a second at least. For a short instant, Aziraphale wondered if perhaps his Enemy had Fallen on accident. He couldn't imagine that someone who felt so sorry for the misfortune of one man—er, boy, as it was at the moment—could have meant to damn himself, to Fall from Grace. Maybe Crowley was right. Maybe they didn't have choice in the way things went, at least in the grand scheme of things. After all, it _was _all part of the Ineffable Plan…did that mean that they were just pieces on a game-board…or something else entirely?

He shook his head. _Best not to speculate, _he finally decided before promptly passing out from too much to drink.


	13. Good Friday

It was a tragedy. It was an absolute tragedy. But it had been Written, so obviously, there was no avoiding it. Only enduring it.

People were weeping. People were shouting. Some were doing both. Calls of anger, calls of anguish, calls of ridicule—they all melded together after awhile. Every set of eyes, every soul, was focused on the man on the middle of the three crosses. The innocent. Jesus Christ.

"Why doesn't God save him?!" a young woman wailed, arm brushing a man's as she moved in the crowd. "Why doesn't God rescue His Son?!"

The man at her side touched her arm very gently. However, she whirled her head around at the contact as if she had been burned.

"Peace, my dear," the golden-haired man said, his voice thick with tears yet unshed. "God cannot save His Son if His Son is to save mankind."

Tears cascaded down the woman's face. "It isn't fair," she moaned, eyes moving to the dying man. "He never hurt a single living creature—he was so full of love. It's such a _waste!"_

"_No,_" the man snapped, blue eyes blazing, his grip on her arm tightening. She looked back at him, looking broken and lost and in need of guidance. "Don't ever say that it's a waste. He—he's doing it for _you_, and for everyone here, _even_ for the ones who are happy he's dying. Do you understand?"

The young woman obviously didn't like it, but she nodded.

"There now, there's a good girl," said the stranger, and opened his arms to embrace her. They weren't the only people clinging together in this mob, and the woman certainly wasn't the only one sobbing into a stranger's shoulder. It was a tragedy, and people had to come together, after all.

"Alright, everything's alright." The man released the woman from his arms and looked back up at the dying Messiah. "Now watch with dignity, my child, and do stop your screaming. It's alright to cry, but you won't help anything by making a spectacle of yourself."

"Yes sir," the woman said, and stepped a few feet away to watch the three men die. She was glad that the man had said it was alright to cry, because she couldn't have stopped the flow of tears if she'd tried.

Aziraphale forgot the young woman as quickly as it had occurred to him to comfort her. That had just been a reflex, really. He sighed and his eyes flickered around the crowd, nearly all of whom could use some sort of comfort as well. (Never mind that he could count himself in those numbers.) The people who were completely comfortable were throwing things and calling the Messiah names, as if he were a common criminal. Aziraphale wished he could unsheathe his wings and confirm everything Jesus had ever said, but that would only get him smitten, good intentions or not. Every bit of suffering Jesus endured, every sacrifice the Lamb made, would benefit the Flock in the long run…but still…he was _human_…it all seemed a bit…

"Bloody sadistic little spectacle, isn't it?" mumbled Crowley, who was quite suddenly standing right beside the angel.

Aziraphale noted that Crowley hadn't been there a moment before, but said nothing of it. "I know how you feel, now," he said instead. "This is too much. I thought I'd be able to handle this, since it's all for the right reasons, but—but—" He couldn't quite say what he meant, but Crowley understood anyway.

"Yeah," the demon said quite eloquently. "I hate it. But don't tell anyone. A demon could get in real trouble, feeling sorry for another living creature, especially one so far down the Enemy Spectrum. We're supposed to bask in the suffering of others, you know," he confided.

"You mean you don't?" Aziraphale felt as though he already knew this.

"That's what I mean."

And then, thunder clapped, and rain began to fall. Weather isn't always empathetic, doesn't always feel the need to match the mood. But today it did, because this was a real tragedy.

The angel's eyes moved from the crucifixion to the sky, and the tears brimmed over. He was thankful for rain, because he really didn't want his Eternal Adversary to see that he was crying. He had only wept a few times before in his long existence, but he couldn't decide if he was ashamed for it or not. He just knew that he didn't want his Enemy to notice and think he was weak.

Crowley didn't notice, actually, as he his eyes were on the dying Lamb, not the weeping angel. Then, he said, "I think I'm going to get out of here. I don't want to watch this." Not waiting for the angel's response, he turned and walked briskly towards the back of the crowd. People stepped out of his path as if on instinct.

Conflicted and a little shocked, Aziraphale watched him go, and then, with one final look of Sorrow for the Prince of Peace, followed. (He had to shove a little to get out of the crowd, he noted, but couldn't bring himself to envy the demon's grace.)

And then, as Aziraphale caught up to Crowley, the man on the cross, who had thus suffered in silence, called out, "My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?"

That was the breaking point. The crowd at their backs wailed anew, and even Aziraphale lost his guarded dignity as his tears gained sound as he sobbed. It wasn't even the sniffly blubbering Crowley had always expected from the angel—it was a high, barely-subdued keening that rattled Crowley's core. It almost made his tear ducts itch.

He didn't move to comfort the angel, though. He just walked, hands behind his back, looking straight ahead, allowing the angel to mourn. They walked with a good distance between them, with Crowley ahead. If the streets had not been deserted and there had been anyone to look on, onlookers would never have guessed that the two were walking _together_.

The demon bit his lower lip after the tenth consecutive minute of angelic mourning, however. He rounded on him, nearly causing the two of them to collide. "Would you _shut up_?" he hissed. "I left to get _away_ from crying idiots!" His tone was a bit more acidic than intended, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

It was just as well, because Aziraphale didn't even seem to register the insult. "He's dead now, I can feel it," he said, finally sounding like he'd gained a little bit of composure, like a child at a supermarket who's realized that they're not getting the toy they want no matter how much they cry and scream. He had to nearly shout to be heard over the rain, though, so it was still obvious from his voice that he wasn't completely calm yet.

"Good," Crowley replied, lip curling slightly over the word. Neither of them was quite sure what he meant by that. He glared for a moment longer before turning swiftly on his heel and continuing to walk. Aziraphale noticed distractedly that Crowley didn't appear to be even the slightest bit damp.

"Where are we going?" the angel asked, still walking behind the demon.

Crowley shot the angel a tired look. "We? Why we? Why are you following me?"

_Because I can't bear to be alone right now_, Aziraphale thought just loudly enough for Crowley to hear it.

The demon snorted and thought back, _Then why are you using __**me**__ for company? You'd be much happier if you went off and inspired some goodwill. Or better yet, go visit Heaven. I bet the other angels are just as bloody depressed as you are._

Aziraphale picked up his pace so he was walking right beside his counterpart. "Like I could leave you alone on Earth at a time like this."

Crowley grinned. "What, you don't trust me?"

Aziraphale smirked and rubbed his eyes. "Decidedly not," he said, and then sniffled.

"Oh don't start that again."

"I ought to smite you, you know."

"Wait a week, and then go ahead and try."

"A week?"

"Long enough for me to jump the country."

Aziraphale chuckled and ran his hands through his soaked hair. "You do that. As for me, I'm going to stay around the next few towns. Need to—"

"Should you really be telling me this? Since when do we share business plans?"

Aziraphale shut his mouth. And then opened it again. "How long has it been since I saw you last? Twenty years? Twenty-five? You're looking well. I do wish we could have met up again under happier—"

"Do you always make small talk when you're depressed?"

"Yes."

"I see. Listen, angel, I'm off to get wasted. Come along if you want, but don't expect me to be a shoulder to cry on."

"I'm not crying," said Aziraphale. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"Wine," Crowley said. "I'm talking about wanting wine."

"I don't know if anyone is open today, though," the angel mused, voice lowering. "Nearly the whole town was out there..."

"Would you quit that? Of course places are open. All you have to do is _expect _places to be open. Are you saying you don't ever will things like that?"

"I do sometimes. I suppose it slips my mind most of the time. I tend to do things like humans, at least as far as material—"

"_Wow_, you talk a lot."

"You _asked!"_

"Only to make sure you didn't talk anymore about what the whole town was out there doing." The sentence was jerky, as if he was forcing himself to say it against his better demonic judgement.

A little shocked, Aziraphale looked at Crowley's face and saw that he was scowling. The rain that had hidden the angel's tears had the opposite effect on the demon—if Aziraphale hadn't known any better, he would have seen the water on the young, handsome face and guessed that the demon had been crying over the crucifixion.

_Absolutely impossible,_ he thought instantly, but then stopped. He suddenly remembered a night a little less than four decades ago, and an often revisited argument, and an unbidden thought occurred to him: _Maybe the demon really cares._

All form of thought was abandoned as soon as the two reached the tavern that Crowley forced to exist, but the angel made sure that that last one was preserved in a special place in his subconscious. Perhaps he could use it for reference at a later date. Reference for what, he did not yet quite know, but he supposed it would all come in time.

For now, though, Aziraphale and Crowley drank together in very-nearly-but-not-quite-companionable silence, decidedly _not_ thanking God it was Friday.

* * *

**_(A/N)_**

**_Part 2 of 3 in my Religious Angst mini-series. XD_**

**_I do wonder how glaringly out-of-character I'm making the poor dears. I suppose it's all up in the air since it's Pre-Arrangement, as long as I keep Aziraphaple from saying 'my dear' too much. Dunno. Hope you don't hate me for using the 'spark of goodness' to make Crowley a bit sympathetic to the whole suffering-and-death-of-Christ business._**

**_Anyway. Much love!  
Miyazaki-A2_**


	14. Easter

When Crowley walked into the crowded, loud tavern—which existed on _its own_, thanks for asking—the first thing he noticed was the presence of an ethereal being. Not that this was particularly surprising. Aziraphale was sure to be happy today of all days, and it was just like the angel to sneak a few drinks while spreading the news of the Resurrection.*

Doing his very best not to draw too much attention to himself, he sat down at the bar on the other side of the man to whom the angel was jabbering, and ordered himself a drink.

"And," the angel said to his companion in a voice that said he was coming to the end of what had been a very long story, his seraphic grin visible from the corner of Crowley's eye, "I swear to you, as true as I sit here today, Jesus of Nazareth has risen from the dead."

Crowley snorted. _Game time,_ he thought, and turned to look at the men to his side with the eyes of a stranger. Aziraphale met his gaze, and decided to play along and banish all recognition from his face. He frowned at the demon's laughter.

"That's an outright lie," the demon said to both the angel and his companion. "People don't come back to life."

Aziraphale looked smug for his companion's sake. "His body was not in the tomb, my friend. He is Resurrected."

"Is that what you think? Because my dear friends the Roman soldiers outside say that his body was _stolen_."

The angel's companion finally spoke, turning to Aziraphale with wide eyes. "But didn't you say it would be impossible to move the stone of the tomb?" He was a young man, younger even than Crowley liked to pretend to be, and obviously one of the gullible variety.

Crowley grinned for a moment, and then scoffed. "They _closed _the tomb, didn't they? It wouldn't take an angel to open it again—just a band of very determined, very greedy men."

The young man blanched while the angel flushed. "But why would someone want to steal his body?"

"Why does anyone rob a grave? The man was a celebrity, and hum—_people _are twisted. They could sell it to his enemies as a trophy. Loads of reasons."

The young man now looked green instead of white. Aziraphale jumped in. "You forget, my friend, that his disciples have _seen _Jesus Arisen. His mother and Mary Magdalene, as well."

"All of whom were completely enamored with the man. Perhaps he told them to say such things should such a situation as grave-robbing arise." The lies felt good on his tongue as he spoke them. "He was an attention-seeker in life, you know, and bloody charismatic. Some people'd do anything he said if he asked nicely. Or at all."

The young man in-between the angel and demon leaned in closer to the latter. "You really think that? Do you really think it's all just a lie?"

"Yes," said Crowley, eyes flickering up to meet Aziraphale's. The angel looked absolutely furious—not because of the blaspheming, but because he was losing the game, losing the soul. "Yes, I do. I don't believe in anything I haven't seen for myself, and I have never seen a person come back to life after being dead three days. It's impossible." This was partly true—Crowley had never seen a person come back to life after _three _days; Jesus usually got to them earlier than that, and Crowley had at least been there (masquerading as a family member out of curiosity) when that girl sneezed herself back to life.

The angel ground his teeth and growled, "You obviously have no Faith, sir. One has to believe in things one hasn't seen, or the entire purpose is defeated."

"You haven't seen Jesus Arisen either, have you?" Triumph was clear in Crowley's voice. On Saturday, he and the angel had migrated a few miles away from the town where Jesus had died, just to get away from the oppressing depression, and the Son hadn't gotten a chance to get to this town since the Resurrection. It was a bit of a low blow to use this fact as a source of ammunition, but hey, he was a demon, and this was just too perfect—no matter how this went, the angel would look like a rumormonger,_ and_ Crowley would get one-on-one temptation points with the fellows Downstairs for instilling Doubt into the angel's companion. Crowley couldn't keep the grin off his face.

Aziraphale obviously refused to lie, even though it was clear on his face that he knew that the demon had won this one. "No," he said, "I haven't." After all, he had known about the Resurrection since the Birth. Obviously he hadn't seen any need to wait to start spreading the news until he'd actually _seen _the Lamb again. To him, that would have been wasting time. "But I—"

"But you what? Heard it around? How reassuring." He rolled his eyes to the man beside him, who was staring desolately at his own hands and thus missed the motion. He had a thick crease between his dark eyebrows.

"I—I th-think I should be getting home," the man said, standing. He quickly paid the man behind the counter for his untouched wine. "Goodbye, my, er, friends," he said, eyes flickering uncertainly between Crowley and Aziraphale, and then he left quickly.

As soon as his companion was gone, Aziraphale turned to Crowley and continued to glare daggers. "Was that really necessary? You were blaspheming so outrageously that it made my ears hurt."

Crowley laughed. "Demon," he said, jabbing a thumb at his own chest. "Blasphemy is just part of the gig if it'll help taint souls."

Aziraphale's expression darkened, a hint of disgust dancing across his features. "He won't go to Hell just because he doesn't believe in Jesus, you know."

"And he won't go to Heaven just because he does," Crowley countered, voice lowering to match the angel's dark tone. "It's what he _does_ with what he believes, and _that's _his own choice." He grinned suddenly, and laughed. He was really in too good of humor today to be going around using dark tones for too long.

Aziraphale stood up. "Fine. You keep spreading your Roman nonsense, and I'll keep spreading Gospel. Just leave me alone while I do it, would you? Please?"

"That I can do," Crowley said, still smiling. "No interference on this particular subject, eh?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale slowly. "I won't interfere if you don't. People have to make their own choices about this one, you're right. And…I'd really rather not kill you over this. It's…tiresome." The word was wrong, but the inflection was dead-on, and Crowley understood. This whole Messiah business had been something like a long, metaphysical bonding moment for the two, and deep down, neither wanted to end it on a bad note. 'It's tiresome' was really just another way to say, _I'm really glad it bothered you so much when Jesus was killed, and maybe you're not as horrible and heartless as I thought you were, and I think you deserve to live uninterrupted for at least a while longer. At least until you start acting horribly and heartlessly again, but you understand that._

"Sounds like we're in agreement." His smile was really quite broad, and he kept flashing his pretty, slightly pointed teeth, and Aziraphale found himself mesmerized for an instant, unable to speak.

So the angel just smiled blandly back, turned, and left.

The smile faded when the angel was gone, and Crowley sat with his drink for a few silent minutes, until he heard someone across the room shout, "It's true, my brothers, my friends! Jesus of Nazareth, our Messiah, has returned from the dead!"

The grin returned, more wicked than it had been for the angel, and the game started for real. "That's an outright lie," he said loudly, standing and turning on his heel.

* * *

* Crowley tried not to wonder when he'd gotten to know the angel well enough to know what was 'just like him' to do. He also tried to ignore the fact that he was happy today, too. His success rate is up in the air at this point.

* * *

**_(A/N)_**

**_My Sunday School teachers always told me that the reason that most of the Jews didn't become Christians after the Resurrection was because the Romans were able to spread it around that Jesus' body had simply been stolen, that there had BEEN no Resurrection. It was supposedly easy, especially since Jesus went back up to Heaven not long after Rising..._**

**_And I'm like..."Okay, let's go with that!! _8D_"_**

**_Not saying that's what I really think it was, but it works for this~!_**

**_I'm rambling. Much love.  
Miyazaki-A2_**


	15. New Year's

Aziraphale couldn't remember exactly when humans had started being able to mark each passing year on a specific day. So many civilizations had developed so many calendars; it was hard to remember exactly when people _agreed_ that the middle of winter was the beginning of a new year.

It didn't matter, really. It was _fun_, now that the year was standardized. Humans got in such a tizzy over it; it was harder to ignore than when it had been back when the years were measured by the seasons alone.

December 31st was loud in the streets of London—it was impossible to drown out the revelries by burying yourself in a book. It was celebrations like this that made Aziraphale grateful that he never bothered to try to sleep. If he'd been inclined to sleep through the parties outside, he would have been nothing but frustrated at having his efforts thwarted.

So he stayed in and drank all night, as per human tradition.

Surprisingly, Crowley found it fit to join him. Aziraphale imagined that the demon would have preferred to be out partying with half-drunken humans, maybe in a club, dancing as well as he could in a particularly tempting leather getup. It was almost…flattering that the demon seemed content to sit with Aziraphale in the back room of the bookshop, blaring bebop and drinking.

They played something like a game those nights—listing the things humans had invented or accomplished, skittering over the negatives nervously before crowing triumphantly about something else. _('England got a new Queen this year!' 'The Americans went to the moon this year!' 'Blessit, Elvis died this year—Are you sure?' 'One word…MTV!—That's the televisions channel just for bebop, right?—Yes, angel. I see great things in its future.' 'The world didn't end this year!!)_

This brought us to the present. The New Year they didn't think they'd get, the New Year that wasn't supposed to come.

They were very, very drunk and very, very giddy.

It was like a mantra, almost a song:

"The world didn't end this year, the world didn't end this year!" Crowley crooned, arm slung over the angel's neck, holding their heated bodies close together.

"Somebody bless Adam Young!" Aziraphale chimed in.

"And tire irons!"

"And incompetence!"

"And _wine!_"

Crowley took a drink of said wine straight from the bottle, and then tipped the wine straight into the angel's waiting lips.

"Oh yes, that too," Aziraphale agreed emphatically. He was leaning quite heavily on the demon, almost lying on him, half-sprawled. Crowley made no protest to this—on the contrary, the demon's arm kept him locked in place. It wasn't awkward, though, not while they were so drunk and _happy._

"Six thousand years," the angel murmured after a minute of just _listening. _They could hear the people outside, especially rambunctious this year, as if unconsciously making up for the fact that they all should have been dead at this point.

"Not quite sssix thousand, actually. Won't be ssssix thousand until 2004."

"Stickler for detail," the angel accused around what could only be called a yawn. This alone made Crowley sit up a little straighter, just out of shock. Was the angel…sleepy? That wouldn't do. Of all the nights to take his advice and want to sleep…

"Hey Ang," Crowley slurred into Aziraphale's ear, prodding his soft waist. "Wake up."

"'M not asleep," the angel muttered, but his eyes were closed.

"Hey. Hey, let'sss sssober up."

The angel lifted his head. "Why?" he demanded in a tone that could only be described as drowsy.

"I wanna get outta here. Join the rever—relev—the party."

A vague look of pain, softened by drunkenness, crossed the angel's features as he peered at the demon. "I thought you liked spendin' New Year's with me…"

"Nonono," Crowley said quickly. "Ido. Like it a lot. Just…I feel like goin' out tonight. Feel like really celebratin' for real, with the humans an' you. Just this year. Haven't you ever wanted to party, Ang?"

Aziraphale's eyes were wide and dazedly reverent. "You're invitin' me to a party, Crowley? That's so…I…" He winced as most of the alcohol left his system—enough remained to give him a good buzz, to keep the giddiness. "You're right, you're right. Let's have some fun, shall we?" He stood and extended a hand to the demon.

Crowley sobered up to around the same extent as the angel—he allowed just a smidge more alcohol to leave his system. He grabbed the angel's offered hand and hauled himself to his feet, not letting go once he was standing. He swayed only slightly and hissed very deliberately. "Let'ssss go!"

And then the demon dragged the angel into the night, closing and locking the bookshop with only half a thought.

--

The crowd shuddered in unison with utter anticipation. They weren't on edge, not at all—they were excited.

Among their masses, two men stood, singing along to whatever song was blaring out over the speakers. The blonde didn't even care that the music wasn't at all his style—the joy of singing, even rather drunkenly, overpowered his distaste of the modern music. His black-haired companion was more at ease with the celebratory rock songs, and more obnoxious about the singing. The people around them were conflicted between not singing at all to better hear the blonde, or singing even more loudly to drown out the brunette.

It was a careful, perfect balance, but, for once, not intentional. Crowley and Aziraphale were just enjoying themselves, just _being _themselves.

By their sides, their fingers were laced tightly.

And then it was dead quiet in the crowd. Every being knowing almost instinctively what to do, the crowd became a single entity as the final seconds of the Old Year were drawing to a close.

For the supernatural beings, these seconds lasted a bit longer than just seconds.

"FIVE!"

Crowley's thumb brushed the back of Aziraphale's hand.

"FOUR!"

The demon leaned down to whisper in the angel's ear, a number in the high, high five thousands, and the angel laughed.

"THREE!"

Aziraphale looked at their entwined hands, and then leaned up to murmur something about the end of time and the start of a new one.

"TWO!"

"I like the sound of that," Crowley replied in a half growl, using his free hand to turn Aziraphale's face towards his own.

"_ONE!!"_

Aziraphale only had time to gasp, and then smile as Time finally caught up to them…

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

Every couple in the crowd followed their example as the fantastic fireworks went off, reaching for their partners and kissing one another with all the hope a New Year could promise. Old qualms were forgotten, past wrongs set aside. The future was bright, not frightening at all. Everyone there knew that the New Year would bring new pains, new hardships. But with any luck, it would also bring new joys and maybe even new love…

When Crowley pulled away, Aziraphale looked up at him with eyes full of emotion. He couldn't speak for a moment, just a moment. When he found his voice, it was wry.

"What was that for?"

"It's what you do at midnight on New Year's Eve. Just didn't want to feel out of place." The answer was deceptively innocent and affectionately teasing. Neither seemed to be able to stop grinning, and this wasn't quite the alcohol's fault anymore.

"Oh? Is that so?"

"Yep. It's tradition, and a bloody nice one too. Good luck, too. You get to stay with whoever you kiss for the whole rest of the year."

Again, Aziraphale didn't know how to respond to that, not quite. 'Thanks' was definitely the wrong answer. What Crowley had said _meant _something, something deep, something that permeated the very atmosphere around them.

What he finally managed to choke out was, "Good plan." And it was.

Crowley smirked, and Aziraphale grabbed his chin, pulling him down to press their lips together again. Another round of fireworks went off in the London square.

* * *

**_(A/N)_**

**_Hehe, look at that. The slash is like...right there in your face. XD Nothing subtle about that, is there? _**

**_You know, these chapters are so out-of-order, it's insane. Forgive me. XD_**

**_I wanted to do a New Years fic. And, as per my own fanfiction tradition, the 15th chapter HAD to include a kiss somehow, so there you go. Two birds, one fic._**

**_Actually, I don't think you could kill a bird if you threw a fanfiction at it. It'd probably just jump in a spaceship and get the Hell out of there._**

**_XD Anyway..._**

**_Much love.  
Miyazaki A2_**


	16. Possessions

_Crowley stood up, a little unsteadily. He reached a hand down to Aziraphale._

"_Come on," he said. "I'll drive us back to London."_

_He took a Jeep. No one stopped them._

* * *

**Saturday  
An Hour (Give or Take) After the End of the World was Averted**

In all truth, Crowley could have been driving much faster. He would have been, even, if it weren't for the fact that he wasn't driving the Bentley. He didn't know this car, and it just didn't feel _right _to push it past its limits the same way he did his usual car. So they drove just at the speed limit, and for most of the drive they did not speak of it.

Instead, Crowley said, a trifle uncomfortably, "So, uh, angel, how's the corporation feel?" This wasn't quite the right question, but he was building up to that.

Aziraphale's expression was that of a person who'd just been pulled from deep thought. "Er, my what?" he asked distractedly.

"Your corporation. Y'know, your body. The one the kid gave you." He took one hand off the steering wheel to wave absently in Aziraphale's general direction.

Aziraphale gave his body a quick look-over and shrugged. "Well, I…to be honest, I can't tell much of a difference. I haven't had much of a chance to look it over yet, but…I _feel _the same. Usually when I get a new corporation, I have to take a day or two to get used to it again, but…well, it's just so similar."

"Our bodies have never changed _that _much over the years," Crowley pointed out.

"Perhaps it's the trauma of dying that makes it strange to be in a human body again, then," Aziraphale conceded.

Crowley made a strange noise in the back of his throat and the Jeep went faster for a moment, as if he was trying to outrun the subject.

There was an expansive silence. And then:

"Angel…What just happened back there? In Tadfield?"

Aziraphale sensed that the demon was a little bit out of sorts and glanced at his friend worriedly. "Well, I think the world just stopped ending."

The demon nodded slowly. "That's what I thought, too. Wanted to make sure I wasn't imagining it. Seems kind of surreal." His voice was thick with what just may have been relief.

The angel could see lines pulling on the demons usually youthful face, around the mouth and eyes, and he blanched. "Are you alright, my dear?"

Crowley was about to nod and curtly say _Yeah_, but stopped himself. He took a moment, and then shook his head. "Not really. I mean, I'm happy we're alive and you know, _still on Earth_, and all that, but…you know…" His eyes moved across the dashboard miserably, and Aziraphale understood.

"I'm sorry," the angel said quietly, the words just barely avoiding being drowned out by the Water Music. "About your car. I know you loved it."

"It was _mine_," Crowley said wretchedly, hands tightening around the steering wheel of the Jeep. "I had it from new, you remember. And this—this _thing…_I _hate _this car!" He presently whacked the dashboard, and the Jeep lurched forward again, this time going a few notches faster out of sheer terror. It didn't quite understand what it had done to warrant this amount of hatred from the demon, but, being an inanimate object, could do nothing about it and simply drove.

"I know," Aziraphale mumbled. "I'm sorry."

"How about you?" the demon snapped, looking away from the road. "Are _you _alright?"

"What? Me? I already said the corporation felt fine—"

Crowley groaned. "Not your corporation. _You_. You _died,_ Aziraphale. In that fire."

Aziraphale was about to explain the difference between being killed and simply _losing _his corporation, but stopped short when he really registered what Crowley _said._

"What fire?" His face was blank and uncomprehending.

Now Crowley was silent. _Shit_, he thought, _he doesn't know? Now I have to tell him. Shit. Me and my big mouth._

He stared sullenly out at the road, stalling. "You don't remember?"

"Crowley, I wasn't _killed _by a—a fire. I—my body dissolved when I stepped into a—a circle I was using to communicate with Heaven. What are you—_what fire?_" His voice went up an octave at that last part, obviously panicking. He stared wide-eyed at the demon.

It was the demon's turn to apologize for things that weren't his fault. "I'm sorry, angel. It was—the—your bookshop. I don't know how it happened, if it wasn't you, but it caught fire and—and it collapsed." _Right on fucking top of me,_ he didn't say, but thought loudly.

Even the Water Music seemed to go dead silent. Aziraphale opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He took a minute to process this. Then: "You were there?"

"I was looking for you. It was already in flames when I got there. I went in to see if I could still fine you, but you were already, er, gone, I guess. Burnt to a crisp already, I thought, or unconscious from the fumes where I couldn't see. It was frightening." His voice was low and he still would not look at his friend.

"Oh," said Aziraphale. "Well."

"Sorry."

"It was those stupid candles," the angel went on very slowly. "It must have been. The ones I lit to talk to the fellows Upstairs." He blinked, his eyes in his lap. "I was always being told—what a—_fire hazard_ my shop was." His voice cracked, and Crowley finally looked at him again. And inhaled sharply when he saw tears running down the angel's face.

"Aziraphale, _no_," the demon pleaded, almost whining. "What are you—don't _cry_." He suddenly pulled the Jeep over onto the side of the road and touched his friend's arm.

The angel glanced at him. "I can't help it," he half-moaned. "I worked on that collection for _centuries._"

"I know," said Crowley, managing to sound soothing. After all, he'd _watched _the angel work on that collection for centuries.

Aziraphale wiped at his eyes and sniffled pathetically. "I'm awful," he lamented, laughing sarcastically, "and materialistic. I'm a—an angel. I'm not supposed to care about earthly possessions, especially when I _should _be happy today of all days, but—" He gasped, trying to hold back a sob and keep a little dignity. "What am I supposed to _do?_ I _lived _there."

"I—angel, _angel_." Crowley rubbed the angel's arm, completely unsure of what to do with himself. He wondered vaguely if he could get into trouble for consoling somebody, the Enemy especially. Then, he decided he didn't really care. This was _Aziraphale _who was crying in front of him, not some wretched human whose suffering he could potentially benefit from. "_Listen._ You can—you can stay with me, okay? Until we find you another place. We can start a new collection, okay? It'll be alright." He wasn't quite sure what possessed him to spout all these tender, comforting words, but he was sure he meant them. It was usually difficult to express things like this. He usually kept them bottled up, but doing that would have allowed the angel to keep on weeping inconsolably, and that was unacceptable.

Finally, the demon said mindlessly, "_Come on_, angel, it's not the end of the world!"

The both froze, and then really _looked _at each other, at the familiar faces that had stayed more or less the same for about 6,000 years, the friends who had stood alongside each other during the End of the World.

And then they started laughing. Loudly.

The angel wiped his eyes, gasping with mirth, relief dripping from his tone. "You're right, you're right, it's not. We have more time, now." The tears still rolled down his face, but it was all right now, somehow. "Thank you, my dear, for the offer. You sure you wouldn't mind that too much?"

Crowley shrugged, grinning and really gripping the angel's arm instead of simply touching it. "Yeah, sure. It probably won't make much of a difference, anyway, since we don't have to worry about extra sleeping arrangements." He laughed unsteadily, and let go of the angel to pull back onto the road.

Aziraphale sighed. "I don't know," he said quietly. "After all this, you could probably convince me to sleep with you if you tried hard enough."

Crowley almost caused a crash by how hard he pressed his foot to the brake in pure shock.

"_What?_" the angel asked, obviously not quite realizing what he'd just said. Then, comprehension dawned upon him, and he laughed again, blushing but still sounding mildly disapproving when he said, "Crowley, get your mind out of the gutter and drive. I meant _'sleep at the same time that you're sleeping'_, not _that._" He laughed some more, embarrassed, his cheeks red.

Crowley did as he was instructed and kept driving, flipping the bird out the window at the driver who was honking behind him. His face felt hot, but he decided to let the subject drop.

* * *

They went straight to Crowley's flat, not stopping to eat or even drive by the remains of the bookshop. For a while, they just sat silently on the demon's pristine leather couch and drank a bit. Aziraphale had only caught glances of the demon's flat on the odd occasions when he'd come to pick the demon up for lunch-or-dinner-dates, but he had never been inside before. He noted the modern décor with polite, detached approval, mentally telling himself that old-fashioned things weren't an option at the moment and to be grateful for Crowley's decidedly undemonic generosity.

He eventually poked through the demon's book collection and sipped on the wine Crowley had given him, and they talked about inane things of no real importance. It was a relief to finally be able to speak about things other than their jobs and the end of the world. They chatted well into the night, until Crowley finally announced that he was going to bed to sleep off the stress of Armageddon—"So find something to entertain yourself, would you?"—and that they'd go looking for real estate in the morning.

Aziraphale watched his friend saunter off to his bedroom, still sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the bookcase, and then sighed. He waited for half an hour or so, and then rose to his feet and tiptoed after the demon. He poked his head into Crowley's bedroom and peered through the darkness. He didn't have as good of night-vision as Crowley did, but it still wasn't as bad as it would be if he was human.

He could see that Crowley was already dead-asleep, breathing unnecessarily and deeply. A little whistle of a snore drifted through the darkness, and Aziraphale felt his equally unnecessary heart thump heavily in his chest. He was frozen in the doorway, unable to move any closer or farther away. He watched the demon sleep for a good while longer, still as a statue.

And then, the demon tossed in his sleep and muttered a few incomprehensible words. And a few comprehensible ones: "Idiot…angel, stupid…fire, all this bloody fire…my Bentley, the bookshop…gonna…mmm, 'Ziraphale, don't…don't cry…end…of the…world…" He went still again after a few minutes of this.

Aziraphale thawed out then, and smiled a little sadly. _Ah, dearest_, he thought. They had both lost the most prized possessions today, it wasn't just him. Crowley had to drive that stupid Jeep that even Aziraphale would had to admit was an inferior vehicle—Aziraphale would have to find a new place to live, new books, which even Crowley would have to admit would take a while to feel _right _again. In all honesty, it felt like they had lost everything.

But they hadn't, and that was important to remember. They were both still alive, that was something. And the world hadn't ended. That was definitely a plus, a big plus. And, corny as it sounded even within the angel's own head, they still had each other. That made the loss of prized possessions bearable. After all, if the world had ended, they really _would _have lost _everything. _Aziraphale could deal with this outcome, could be grateful.

Not really thinking anymore, the angel took off his shoes and walked into Crowley's bedroom. This bed was obviously expensive—it didn't provide the slightest creak when he climbed up on top of it. He didn't lie down to sleep, but just sat curled up into the fetal position beside his sleeping friend, silent.

He was very good at sitting still. He became a statue again in the darkness, his blue eyes resting on the demon's pale face. The darkness washed him out, turning him nearly black-and-white. It was unreal.

Aziraphale remembered from countless stories and poems that people were supposed to resemble angels in their sleep. This was true for many humans, actually. But Crowley did not look angelic—his face was still too full of sharp angles and hard corners even in sleep. He still looked like a demon, but he looked peaceful, which was almost as much of an achievement as looking angelic was. His jaw was slack and the stress lines had melted, and the sarcastic turn of his lips had smoothed into a small O. It was almost enough to make Aziraphale lay his head down, too…

But no. He stayed still, taking silent vigil and just staring down at the demon for the rest of the night, taking comfort even in the unconscious company. Crowley only spoke up twice more in that time—first muttering something about the fact that Adam Young and Jesus Christ didn't look a thing like each other, and secondly mumbling something mildly distressing about Ineffability and Plans and Wars.

* * *

**Sunday  
The First Day of the Rest of Their Lives**

When the pale light of predawn filtered in, the angel regained his ability to move. Crowley was still heavily unconscious, so Aziraphale allowed his hand to reach out and run his fingers through the demon's fine hair. For a moment, Aziraphale remembered when he'd used to pull this hair on a regular basis, and strike the face that went with it. Back in the days long before the idea of an Arrangement had dawned upon either of them. He liked the way it was much better now, he noted, smiling and removing his hand from Crowley's hair.

He carefully swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, cautious not to wake the demon for fear of another bought of dirty jokes. He padded quickly out of the demon's room, and retrieved his shoes.

Once in the living room, the angel manifested a fountain pen and piece of paper. He scrawled a quick note in his neat handwriting, and left it on a table beside a houseplant. He made rounds, stroking each plant tenderly and murmuring things like, "You mustn't hold it against Crowley, dears. He isn't so bad…", and then left the flat.

* * *

Crowley's eyes fluttered open as the sun rose and sent yellow stripes across his bedroom. He stretched widely, still under the covers, and felt a vague, muddled sort of disappointment and incomprehension when his arm didn't hit anything else in the bed besides pillows. Bemused and drowsy, he sat up a little and examined the sheets beside him. For some reason, he'd half-expected to discover Aziraphale beside him. Ah well, must have been a dream. Silly idea, anyway.

He got out of the bed in one quick movement, and the bed folded itself back into its usual unused appearance at the demon's gesture. He walked briskly into his living room, not bothering to dress any more than the snazzy pajamas he'd worn to bed, and called out the angel's name.

No response.

"Angel?" he called again, really looking now. He let his aura reach out, searching for a sign of the angel's, and didn't find anything. Then, he felt something else, something he couldn't usually perceive—a feeling of comfort and love permeated the atmosphere in his flat. It took a moment, but he finally realized that it was coming from the blessed _houseplants._ He would have to deal with _that_, then.

As he made rounds insulting and threatening the once-happy plants, he came across a note from the angel, resting beside the pot of one of the demon's victims. He snatched it up, forgetting his original objective, and read:

_My dear,  
I'm taking a walk down to Soho. I have to see the damages for myself before we set out to find a new place for me. Shall we meet at St. James at noon? Thank you again for allowing me to stay here last night.  
Love,  
Aziraphale._

Crowley's unnecessary heart stuttered stupidly at the L-word, but he nodded curtly. He wondered briefly why the angel hadn't woken him or waited for him. He would have driven him to Soho if he'd asked. It was a long walk…but maybe that was the point. Maybe the angel needed to be alone for a while longer.

Crowley sighed and finished his rounds of plant-torment. Then, with nothing better to do, manifested a clean suit for himself and left his flat. Maybe he could kill a few hours until noon by breaking in the Jeep, since he seemed to be stuck with it for now. Maybe after they found a new shop for Aziraphale, they kind find a new—old—car for Crowley. But for the time being, he'd have to teach the Jeep who was boss…

He still hadn't _really _resigned himself to the idea of driving anything other than the Bentley on a permanent basis, but he realized that he just had to deal with the fact that the Bentley was a non-option at this point.

This one thought was nearly enough to make him start crying like Aziraphale had at the loss of his shop. Almost, mind you. Instead, though, he felt a sharp pain in his chest that may have been heartburn but was more likely heartbreak.

Grumbling, he shoved his hands into his pockets as he climbed down the last flight of stairs to the ground floor of the apartment building. Once through the lobby and out the sliding glass doors, he glanced sullenly to the street, looking for the blessed Jeep…

And it wasn't there.

Crowley stood stock-still when he saw what _was _in his usual parking spot. Then, he approached it slowly, taking deliberate, cautious steps, as if it was a small animal that would vanish if he startled it. When he was close enough to touch it, he did so very carefully, very gently, grazing the palm of his hand against the smooth surface, trying to convince himself that he hadn't somehow gone crazy.

After maybe a minute, he grabbed the arm of an older gentleman who was passing quickly by on his way to church, to which he was very late and only made later by the interruption. "Hey, uh, sorry," muttered Crowley, "but do you know what kind of car this is?"

The man gave him a gruff, un-churchly look at the unceremonious interruption, but examined the vehicle and said, "That would be a Bentley, sir. Probably an antique. Dunno why it's out in the street; probably doesn't run, anyway."

He looked pointedly at the hand clamped down on his arm, but Crowley was past noticing. The man beside him ceased to exist in his little world as he whooped in triumph and exultation. He ran to the door and it opened at a touch. He dove into the seat and melted into the familiar leather. He put his hands on the steering wheel and, _God,_ it felt exactly the same in his grip. It even _smelled _exactly the same in here.

It was impossible, but it was real. He didn't know how, but he'd gotten his Bentley back. Or, if this wasn't the original, he couldn't tell the difference _at all_.

He patted the dashboard reverently. "Hey there, old friend. You okay? I won't do that to you again," he promised. "I'll take better care of you than ever, okay? And we'll drive faster than ever, right?" He smiled mindlessly, a wide, wild grin of pure relief and joy. He really had gone native, he noted, if a _car _got him this excited.

_My car_, he thought. _I wonder if the angel—_He paused, and looked blankly at nothing. The angel…was he okay? Crowley could always drive after him and give him a ride to wherever he was going…but maybe it wouldn't be right to flaunt his regained Bentley just yet. Let the angel mourn a bit; that was best.

For now…Crowley resumed his manic grin as he pulled out of the ignition key that had not been in his pocket a minute ago and started the Bentley. He had a few hours to kill before his date with Aziraphale, he reminded himself. He could use a drive.

* * *

As Aziraphale walked down the familiar street, he wasn't quite sure what he was expecting to see when he reached his bookshop's old lot. The slightly childish part of his mind imagined a huge pile of ash, but he wouldn't be surprised if the some of the framework of the building was still standing. Then again, Crowley had said it had collapsed, so maybe it would just be a huge pile of charred wood and bricks. Surely, he thought, his books were a complete loss either way. Maybe one of the old bound-leather numbers had survived under the wreckage that may or may not have been there, but would he really have the strength to dig through the remains of his home for something that _also _may or may not have been there?

He was afraid he might start crying again at the idea.

_And maybe_, he thought, _maybe they've already cleared the wreckage and cleared the lot. Maybe all that will be left is a huge square of dirt… _

He wasn't sure which outcome would hurt more.

The point was, whatever his ideas had been, he was not prepared for the truth.

There were no ashes, no charred wood, no vacant lot. There were no men in coats and masks clearing the wreckage. In fact, there was no wreckage at all.

There was a bookshop. A neat little bookshop with room enough on the second floor for a small flat, perhaps. On a painted sign on the window, the building was proclaimed to be "Ezra Fell's Books", and a smaller sign on the door announced, "Sorry, We Are Closed." (Nowhere did it ask would-be customers to Please Come Again Soon.)

It was _his _bookshop, nothing changed from as far as he could tell from the outside. But… Didn't Crowley say…? Did Crowley lie…?

No, he decided, Crowley wouldn't have lied, not about this. The Arrangement all but specifically stated that the Bentley and bookshop were off-limits, even to things like cruel jokes. So that must mean…

Aziraphale sighed happily and unlocked the door to his shop, breathing in the musty scent of old paper with the air of a priest smelling old familiar incense after a long time among pagans. _Oh_, that Adam Young. If he wasn't a good little boy, there was no such thing. It didn't even bother Aziraphale for much longer than five minutes when he discovered that some of his prophecy books had been, er, replaced. He could actually sell these new ones, and it didn't matter that the old ones were gone, because the world didn't end, and they weren't relevant anymore!

"Whoo-ee!" Aziraphale crowed, sitting at his computer after checking the prices of these new books.

It was getting steadily closer to noontime every second—he would have to leave soon to go meet Crowley, but he wasn't sure he wanted to leave quite yet…but really, it wouldn't be fair to gloat about getting the shop back by not showing up for plans he himself had made. Crowley must already be feeling wretched about the Bentley…

That clinched it, he decided, standing and pushing in his chair. He grabbed a dusty tweed coat as he walked out, and locked the door behind him.

* * *

It is something to be said for Aziraphale and Crowley's mutual denseness and slight self-centeredness that in never occurred to either of them that Adam Young would give them _both_ back their lost prized possessions. There was nothing malicious in the overlooking of common sense—just the usual excitement and incompetence at work. Their heads had been so filled up with joy, and after they got a little bit over that, they were distracted by worry over their destinies and the world's. Simply no time to think of one another, you see.

Though, when they met up at St. James Park, around 11:30 because they were anxious, and Crowley drove up in his big black car and Aziraphale walked up with a familiar fine layer of dust on his clothes, they realized that their godchild was looking after the both of them better than they had ever looked after him.*

The demon smiled almost smugly as he walked towards the angel, whose expression was similar. He jabbed his thumb behind himself, towards the Bentley, as they started walking. "Well, as you can tell, it isn't burnt to a crisp anymore. Guess someone likes me."

Aziraphale beamed.

--

_"Same here," said Aziraphale. "The shop's all there. Not so much as a soot mark."_

"_I mean, you can't just _make _an old Bentley," said Crowley…_

* * *

In later years, nobody really remembered the day one of the bookshops in Soho burned down, and nobody really _believed _that a big old Bentley had turned into a fireball.

However, in the back of their heads, people did notice that for as long as they could remember, an old Bentley was parked in front of an old bookshop, from which nobody could remember ever purchasing a book. The Bentley would be gone for a short expanse of time every once in a while, but by the time anyone consciously thought to wonder where it had gone, it was back. This lasted for so long and so consistently that it became a fact of life in Soho, almost folklore, and no one questioned it.

For the owners of the Bentley and bookshop were as unchanging as their possessions. And though humans' minds had predispositions to write this off as impossible, there was something that said, _'It's a good thing,' _so all was left alone and more or less ignored. Life went on, and the perpetually young man in the Bentley kept coming to see the perpetually middle-aged man in the bookshop, sometimes whisking him away to fancy restaurants or parks or museums or performances, and sometimes dragging him into the back room of the bookshop so they could drink themselves silly.

* * *

*As in, he took care of them _at all_.

**_

* * *

_**

**_(A/N) _**

**_Hmm. I actually haven't got much to say about this one. I do hope I didn't make them too materialistic or sappy--it's just, in the book, I always wondered what they did Saturday night, how they dealt with the fact that the only earthly goods they'd ever really cared about had gone up in flames. _**

**_(Lol, that's exactly what I wrote about. This is a waste of space and text, isn't it? XD)_**

**_Much love,  
Miyazaki-A2_**


	17. Discorporation

"Frankly, my dear, I find the thing to be completely absurd."

"Oh come on, angel. You said the same thing about cell-phones and iPods themselves. Are you really that against all technology in general?

"This—this iPhone, as you call it…it just seems impractical." He turned the contraption over in his hand, getting fingerprints on the screen, much to Crowley's disdain. "Carrying your telephone and your music-playing device on the same machine? It's almost begging for unnecessary and possibly dangerous multitasking."

"Yes," said Crowley, grinning. "That would be the point. Mass distraction. The Americans are wonderful at it, nearly masters, each and every one of them." His grin turned slightly menacing, and Aziraphale thought he saw the tips of those pretty white teeth sharpen. "And I haven't even shown you Apps yet."

The angel blanched at the demon's expression, and opened his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by an electronically bastardized version of _Bohemian Rhapsody_* coming out of the device in his hand. Several other patrons there at the Ritz turned to give the supernatural beings dirty looks at the noise pollution. Aziraphale positively glowered at Crowley as he handed the much-too-thin-not-to-be-fragile music-phone-thing back to the demon, especially when the demon answered it without even the decency of an apologetic glance.

"Hey," the demon greeted with a leer in his voice, "this would be Anthony Crowley. What do you want?" His expression was oddly smug, and his voice suave, but as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line, his face paled and thin lines appeared around his mouth. "Oh yeah, alright, sure. Er. Give me two seconds."

He moved the phone-like-device away from his mouth and gave Aziraphale an anxious glance.

_Is it the Lower Downs?_ the angel asked silently, directly into the demon's head to keep from being heard over the phone. This would be the first time either of them had been contacted since the Non-Apocalypse…

Crowley shook his head quickly, marginally abating the angel's worst fears. _No,_ he projected back, _it's a…_Aziraphale listened as the demon's mind searched for the appropriate word. _It's a business associate. Satanist._ Then, out loud, he said, "I have to take this call."

Aziraphale nodded and said, "Of course. I understand." He looked down at his empty plate and stood. "I'll pay up front and wait by the Bentley." _Don't ruin anything_, he added silently, on an impulse.

_Right back at you. I won't be long,_ Crowley thought in reply before turning back to his iPhone. "Yeah, I'm still here." He kept speaking tersely to the Satanist on the other line, but the angel stopped listening and walked to the front of the restaurant to pay.

The crisp winter air caught him a bit by surprise, and he glowered into the night. The Ritz had been packed tonight, and the demon had barely been able to wish up an empty table, let alone an empty parking space. Eventually Crowley had been forced to give it up as a bad job and park quite a long ways away from the restaurant. Now, as Aziraphale wandered through a dark alleyway towards the secluded corner in which the Bentley was parked, he wished he'd leant a bit more assistance to the endeavor instead of insisting on doing things the human way.

Behind him, someone called cleared their throat from the shadows, and Aziraphale froze.

* * *

*This had previously been an electronically bastardized version of Vivaldi's _Spring_, but Crowley had accidentally left his phone in the Bentley for a fortnight…and well, there you have it. Not even iPhones are safe.

* * *

There's Heaven, there's Hell, and then there's Limbo. Limbo is in the dimension right next to Earth's plane of existence, whereas Heaven and Hell are in the dimensions above and below Earth's, respectively. Limbo is not simply the place for un-baptized children—souls in Limbo simply don't quite _belong _in either Heaven or Hell, so this intermediate location is the only destination that truly fits them; it's so close to Earth in its moral ambiguity that most souls can barely tell any difference once they get there.

But the formal administrators of Heaven and Hell are not exactly satisfied with ambiguous souls floating around in Limbo when they _could _be floating around in _their _dimensions. So, by one of the very few agreements between the two warring supernatural planes, at regular intervals, souls in Limbo are given new bodies and sent back over to Earth for another go-around. This is due to the fact that, since the creation of Earth (and Limbo, which is a few moments younger), there are no direct routes from one supernatural plane to the other. You can only get from one to the other from Earth. Inconvenient, yes, but fact.

The problem with the Soul-Recycling- Program* is that the souls retain only tremulous, vague memories of their previous lives and stays in Limbo**, and it is very difficult for a soul to redeem or destroy itself if it doesn't remember what to do differently. Souls tend to be of a certain nature—Good, Bad, or Moderate—and tend to _stay _of that nature unless acted upon by an unavoidable, soul-altering force.*** Because of this, the vast majority of souls that went to Limbo once almost inevitably return to Limbo, and they live in their little intermediate twin-Earth until it's their turn to try again.

Matthew Gregson was one of those souls, though of course he didn't know it. He had a natural tendency towards thievery****, but this was a result of his tendency to be born into situations in which thievery was the only way to keep himself and his family alive.*****

He was a master of the art of dark-alleyway-muggings. He may as well have been born with a weapon in his fist—he had an amazing ability to choose weapons that were threatening enough to award him substantial amounts of money, but small enough that he could usually avoid actually killing people. Small knives, small guns, the like.

* * *

*Or, reincarnation, as humans call it.

**These vague memories are the cause of déjà vu, in fact.

***This is the basis for one of Newton's lesser known laws.

****Point for Hell.

*****Point for Heaven.

* * *

Presently Matthew Gregson had a small pistol in his grip, and he was lurking in the shadows of an alleyway near a snazzy restaurant. He found that people who went to these sorts of establishments where usually of the wealthy variety. They were also usually self-centered enough that they would hand over their wallets and purses at the smallest hint of a threat upon their lives. A great combination for his needs.

His small, thin body blended in well with the darkness. Though his eyes were watching the opening of the alleyway intently, his mind wandered back to the hungry little girl back home, the Good Motivation that kept his soul from being damned.

Finally, there was movement at the end of the alley. Matthew's hand tightened around the handle of his weapon, and he pressed himself flat against the side of the building behind him. He stopped breathing as a man passed right by him, singularly concerned with finding his way through the dark rather than the dangers _in _the dark.

When the stranger was far enough down the alley that Matthew could easily stop him if he tired to make a break for it, he emerged from the darkest of the shadows. He cleared his throat menacingly, and the stranger froze and turned slightly. Upon seeing Matthew, the man shook his head and kept walking.

"Hey!" Matthew called, deepening his voice for extra menace.

The stranger across the alley stopped again, and turned fully towards his mugger. "Yes?" he asked, sounding infuriatingly calm.

There was a light in a window in the building on Matthew's right side. It was high up enough that there was no worry of witnesses, but a pale illumination fell upon Matthew's would-be victim. The stranger was visible, but washed out…except for his eyes. Behind a pair of rectangular glasses, this man had the deepest, most celestial blue eyes Matthew had ever seen in his life.

Their gaze, calm and sympathetic and knowing, stirred something inside Matthew's Being. It was like déjà vu, but stronger. For a fraction of a heartbeat, Matthew thought he could feel a dusty cobblestone beneath bare feet, despite the fact that he was wearing shabby sneakers. For the slimmest hair of a moment, he imagined himself with a dagger instead of his pistol, and suddenly felt a longing for the Mediterranean.

He shook his head and remembered where he was—in London, in an alleyway, mugging a man who looked so familiar that Matthew wondered idly if he was family.

Aziraphale stood patiently, watching as several expressions warred over the mugger's face. "Can I help you?" he finally asked, smiling gently. He saw the pistol in the young man's fist and shook his head a second time. "You don't need that gun," he admonished, sounding downright fatherly.

The man gave the human equivalent of a growl. "Shut up," he snarled, drawing in closer, his weapon pointed right at the angel.

Aziraphale didn't quite blanch. He wasn't afraid of human weapons, not when they were actually being held by humans. He hadn't been discorporated in quite a while, and he wasn't worried even now as the desperate young man with the gun came towards him.

"You think you want money, yes?" Aziraphale continued. "Please, my dear. Everyone wants money. Do you really think this is the best way to get it?"

"I said _shut up!!_" the young man shouted back, and his voice cracked. He really needn't have yelled—he was less than three feet away now. Aziraphale resisted the urge to back up against a wall. This man's thoughts were incomprehensible, but were bathed in impatience and desperation. For a moment, Aziraphale thought that perhaps he should be concerned. Desperate and impatient was a bad combination.

"Really now, my boy," the angel whispered. "You don't want to do this."

_No, _Aziraphale heard a single despairing thought among the chaos of the youth's mind, _but I have to._ "Give me your wallet," he said. "I don't want to hurt you."

Aziraphale could hear the truth in the statement, but it was worthless. There was something wild about this man, something intrinsic within him that said he would do whatever it took to meet his ends.

The angel was suddenly acutely aware of the gun, more aware than he had ever been before. His aura sent out a quick distress call to the demon, wherever he was, and the angel opened his mouth to speak, to attempt again to calm the youth, to guilt him into lowering his weapon—

"What the fuck is going on?!" shouted a voice from the end of the alley. He sounded murderously angry.

Matthew whipped his head around at the eerily familiar voice. _Pain_, he thought. _That voice means pain._

His next action was a reflex reaction to the intense déjà vu. His hands clenched. The trigger was pulled. A shot rang out. He wasn't even looking at his victim. He was looking at the creature that was about to make _him _the victim.

* * *

"Yeah, man, I understand. Completely. I'll get back to you as soon as I can get more information. Bye." He finally pushed the red button on the screen to hang up, and sniggered for a moment. This touch-screen-only system was just the obnoxious type of thing old fuddy-duddies like Aziraphale hated. Manuel buttons were quickly becoming things of the past.

He pocketed the phone and made his leisurely way out of the Ritz. He laughed again as he thought of how pissed Aziraphale would be for having to wait by the Bentley out in the cold. He really _did _have to take that call, though. He was working on a new line of videogames that—along with being exceedingly violent, vulgar, and generally addictive and creating a whole new brand of insolence in children—had a brief image of Satan flash onto the screen in every cut-scene, which in and of itself promoted all sorts of bad karma unto the player. In the previous age of videogames, Crowley could have accomplished this on his own, but now there were so many different consoles to which to convert games that he needed help. It was only his bad luck that caused the only help he could find to be the staunchest of Satanists.

He was considering his recent business transaction as he walked towards the alley that led to the Bentley. But his thoughts were suddenly overthrown when he felt a wave of terror and foreboding burst through the opening. The shock of it made him stop right in his tracks. Maybe he couldn't sense love, but he could sense danger. The rush of bad atmosphere permeating from the alley killed all thoughts in his head other than: _Aziraphale __**is **__by the Bentley, right?_

Then, he felt familiar, not-quite-tangible fingers yank desperately at his aura and suddenly realized, _No, he isn't._

His heart nearly stopped beating for dread. He started forward again, soon at a full gallop, and rushed onto the scene in the alley, only to find some young punk holding up the angel with a gun at point-blank range.

"What the fuck is going on?!" he demanded, his voice a roar, much louder than necessary.

It happened then in the confines of an instant. The punk whirled his head around to give Crowley the strangest of looks, and in the darkness, Crowley saw him pull the trigger on his gun.

The human's gaze remained on Crowley as the angel fell, not even seeming to notice the blood that splattered onto his clothes.

Something in Crowley snapped.

Crowley didn't command his form to change. He didn't want maggots right now. No, that would be too easy. His unnecessary heart clanged against his chest as he watched his angel writhe and gasp out his body's final breaths on the ground, and thought it would be too simple to just scare the shit out of the man. No, he was feeling like a human right now, not a demon, and he wanted to feel flesh under his knuckles, not scare his prey away.

The man with the gun seemed to know what was coming as Crowley sprinted towards him. He dropped his weapon at the same time that Crowley threw off his sunglasses. His mouth opened around what may have been a scream, but Crowley got to him first. He grabbed the punk by the collar and drove his fist right into the youth's nose, which shattered with a satisfying crunch. The young man moaned as blood coursed down his face, and tried to speak again, but this time the demon's fist caught him in the mouth. The young man fell back, and the demon followed him to the cement. His mind was in a haze and he didn't stop hitting the human. There was no one to stop him this time. He may have even been shouting something in Tongues.

He's seen Aziraphale killed before, of course. But those times Crowley had always been in control, had had a choice in the matter. He'd never seen the angel at anyone else's mercy, never seen him killed by anyone else. Crowley had made a point of preventing it in the past, even.

This time there had been no preventing it, and Crowley's mind swam in fury and regret at the fact.

For a brief moment between punches to the youth's face, he wondered if a bullet to the chest hurt overmuch.

"Fucking kids with their fucking guns fucking shooting my fucking angel," he snarled as he rained blows down on the man's head, straddling his hips. Several more curses flew out of his mouth, not all of them in English, before he realized that his bloodied little victim was soundly unconscious.

"_Coward_," Crowley hissed. "Hiding behind a gun and then hiding behind unconsssciousssnessss. If it weren't for the angel, I'd fucking kill you." He moved off the fainted man, kicked him away, and turned on his knees towards his fallen angel.

_Shit_, he thought, looking at the angel's decidedly lifeless face. _Nice going, self. He died while you were beating the kid up. He probably would have preferred you being there for him…_

He shook his head. The anger was quickly draining now, replacing itself with a strange sort of despair. He knew that the angel would be back in a week or so, but he still felt miserable and alone. He made a small noise in the back of his throat and reached for the angel's limp form, pulling the disregarded body into his arms. His mind not quite connected to his actions, he pushed the angel's hair away from his face and cradled his head against his chest. He was only marginally bothered by the blood that soaked into his suit.

What did bother Crowley was the fact that his own face was wet. The tears burned just a little, because demons weren't supposed to go around crying, so he wiped his face impatiently with the back of his hand. The wet spots on his skin still tingled a little.

He heard police sirens coming, and sighed. He placed his hand over the angel's and squeezed gently. When he pulled his hand away, the corpse had a square jaw, a dark military haircut, and tanned skin. As for Crowley himself, when the police saw him, they saw a university-aged boy with loud red hair holding his boyfriend's body. Aziraphale would surely appreciate it if Crowley hid their identities so the angel wouldn't have to start over again once he got back to London.

They arrested the unconscious murder, whose memory had been subtly altered so he would recognize his victim and his assailant. The next day there was a small, private funeral for the victim, in which the dark-haired man was cremated. No one ever saw the dead man's lover again.

Several of Crowley's houseplants did not survive the week between Aziraphale's death and Aziraphale's return.

* * *

Aziraphale was distinctly aware of his death. It'd been a clean kill, one of the fastest deaths he'd ever experienced, beaten only by the time in Mesopotamia when Crowley had slit his throat. Today, he'd had less than half a minute to feel the pain and watch his avenger run towards his killer.

He didn't stay long on Earth after his discorporation. He wasn't sure he wanted to see what Crowley had in store for his little murderer. Being an angel, he couldn't quite bring himself to hope that the demon would beat the man to death…but half-to-death might be acceptable, thought the vindictive part of Aziraphale's brain. Maybe fear and a prison-stay could redeem the man more effectively than pleading and reasoning.

When Aziraphale finally reached Heaven, he was guided into Heaven's equivalent of a waiting-room by a vaguely attractive woman-shaped angel with pink-tipped wings. "Well you just sit right here, 'Ziraphale-sweetie," she said in the gentle, comforting drawl of a Southern Belle, pointing to a small, boxlike chair with holes in the back for his wings. "Haven't seen you Up Here in quite a while."

"I haven't been killed in quite a while," Aziraphale answered pleasantly enough, lowering himself into the customarily uncomfortable seat.

"We noticed," the female-like angel said, unconsciously using the royal We that said _'I speak for a higher power, neener-neener-neener.'_ It always made Aziraphale a little uncomfortable. "We were curious when we didn't see you for a couple of centuries, but we guess you're alright now."

Aziraphale nodded, not quite meeting her amber eyes. He and Crowley did their best not to speak of the Arrangement, so he just replied, "Yes, I'm alright."

The angel noted his discomfort and misinterpreted it. "That—that demon that sticks around Earth…did he do this to you, darling?"

Aziraphale winced. "No. It was a human."

The other angel's pretty face went pale. "Oh my, that _is _distressing. Makes one understand why Father tried to end that violent old world a few years ago." She blushed then, remembering that that subject was a bit taboo, and smiled ruefully. "Here, sweetie, you just fill out this form so we can get started on a new body for you, alright?" She flashed her gleaming white teeth and handed him a clipboard.

Aziraphale resisted the urge to sigh. Who would have thought that the Powers of Good would be behind claims' forms? He manifested himself a pen and began to check the boxes, not looking up again at his companion. She remained standing where she was, though, until he lifted his eyes to hers again.

"May I help you?" he asked. He almost added _my dear _to the end of the inquiry, but stopped just short of it. He could use the endearment with humans and Crowley, but he was oddly intimidated to use it with most other angels. Perhaps he felt that they outranked him, or perhaps it was just that they were always the ones with the upper-hand here in Heaven, the authority. It was all very disconcerting.

The angel before him flashed another grin. "We just wanted you to know, sweetie, that you do not have to wait to be killed to come Up Here. You could always just, you know, visit." Her amber eyes were soft and gentle. She didn't mean to intimidate or belittle—she was just trying to be kind.

Aziraphale lowered his eyes again. "Yes," he said. He didn't seem to be able to say much else.

Finally, the female-shaped angel put her hand on his head and ruffled his hair. "I'll come back when you fill that all out, hun. I know it's a lot of questions to answer, but it'll make your new body more comfortable for you. Afterwards you can have a little Talk with a councilor, okay?"

"Alright," Aziraphale said, his attention solely on his form. He hated Talking with the councilors—mostly because the councils consisted of him sitting in an empty room, responding to a disembodied voice that may or may not have existed purely inside his head. The fellows Up Here certainly knew how to make him feel small.

The angel, whose name Aziraphale had never learned, finally left him alone with his work and the harmless muzak in the background. It was a long stack of forms to fill out, and it took what felt like hours. Sometimes it felt as if Heaven didn't quite _want _to give him a new corporation. But when he finally Signed his Name at the bottom of the final paper, the other angel returned with another smile. She took the clipboard from him and took his hand. She led him to a clean white door, gave his hand a quick squeeze, and he forced his feet to move through the doorway.

There was a small stool that he sat himself upon with no small amount of hesitance, and almost immediately, a Voice addressed him.

**Principality Aziraphale,** the Voice said. **Good to have you back, Brother.**

Aziraphale considered saying _good to be back_, but thought better of it. Best not to lie. "I wish I were here under happier circumstances," he said instead. "It's not every day I'm killed."

**Yes, **said the councilor. **Very true. We were wondering about that. It is a little more than surprising than you have been able to survive so long whilst living in such close quarters with a demon.** The Voice was laced with quiet accusation and even quieter concern.

Aziraphale bit his lip and held his unnecessary breath. He paused and then replied very quietly, "You keep tabs on the demon's location?"

**Know your enemy,** the Voice said simply.

Aziraphale wanted to say _love your enemy_, but refrained.

**One wonders,** the councilor went on, **how it is that you have remained so peaceable with the Damned one.**

Aziraphale said nothing for a long moment, and the air was heavy with the Silence. Finally, he said uncertainly, "This demon…his name is Crowley."

**We know.**

"Yes, yes. Well. He's not that Bad, you see. I've, er, studied him at close quarters, as you said, and I'm of the opinion that, er…he could be much worse."

The accusation suddenly returned to the Voice in full.** He severely beat a young human man not ten hours ago. That is rather Bad, one thinks.**

Aziraphale's back stiffened. "What young human man?"

An image appeared in front of his eyes of a small, skinny man with a strange, pathetic sort of wildness in his eyes. Aziraphale immediately recognized the man, and just barely kept himself from smiling ruefully.

"Yes, well. That would be the man who discorporated me, you see." _And Crowley _could _have killed him_, he didn't say.

Another long Silence. **Yes,** said the councilor.** We know this as well. It…confuses us. Why would a demon avenge your death?**

Aziraphale's breath caught in his throat. This was the moment, he realized. He couldn't go back now.

"Because he's my friend," he announced in a calm, clear voice. "We care for each other." Somehow he managed to keep his voice casual, confident, as if he were merely stating facts. _The sky is blue, dolphins have big brains, Crowley and I care for each other._

The Silence this time was nearly painful, and it was expansive. After what could not have been any less than three minutes, though time meant very little in Heaven, the Voice said, very simply, **We see.**

"Are you going to Fell me?" the angel asked in the same casual, confident tone. _Are you going to the rugby game tomorrow night?_

The pause this time was neither as heavy nor as long. **No,** the Voice said almost hesitantly, as if it wasn't sure it agreed with this verdict. **We…you have done nothing to warrant Falling, as far as we can tell. Our Father obviously has not seen it fit to Damn you, and that speaks greatly.**

Aziraphale nodded. "Thank you_,_" he whispered.

**Your new corporation will be ready in a week or so. You may go, Aziraphale. Enjoy the rest of your stay here at Home.**

* * *

Crowley was sulking. And drunk. Drunk and sulking. He was sitting among plant carnage. A few hours ago, when he had been drunk and _angry_, he'd torn up a perfectly good houseplant for no reason in particular. A few hours from now, he'd be drunk and sad, and he'd start crying over the butchered plant. Even later, he'd be drunk and lonely, and he'd leave the plants to drive to the bookshop.

* * *

When they gave Aziraphale his new body and sent him back down to Earth a week after his death, they told him to keep out of trouble and to be careful. He wasn't quite sure what he thought about that. He hoped they simply meant for him not to killed again, and weren't referring to a certain demon with whom Aziraphale 'kept close quarters'.

He decided he didn't care, though, when he came home to the bookshop to find Crowley asleep and waiting on the couch in the backroom. Aziraphale wasn't in any danger, not from this demon.

The angel smiled and pushed his hand through the demon's strangely disheveled hair. Without warning, one of the demon's hands snapped up and snatched Aziraphale's wrist.

"If I didn't have this bloody hangover, I would hit you sssso hard. Do you know how furious I am with you?"

"How furious?"

"Very." Crowley pushed down his sunglasses to look up at Aziraphale. "You okay?"

The angel smiled. "Oh yes. Good as new. How do I look?"

Crowley squinted blearily up at him, and gave one of his rare blinks. "Not too different."

"Yes, I asked for a corporation as similar to my last one as possible, for consistency's sake."

"Adam will probably be upset when he finds out what you did to the one he gave you." Crowley paused. "I certainly was."

Aziraphale knelt down to get closer to his demon. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get shot."

"I certainly fucking hope not," Crowley grumbled, looking at the angel from the corner of his eyes. He turned his head so the arm of the couch squished up his cheek. "I—I'd forgotten what it was like to see you die. I'm…I'm sorry I didn't come in time to stop him."

Aziraphale's fingers made their way back to Crowley's hair. "Well, I certainly don't blame you."

Crowley grinned. "I don't blame me either. It's your fault for not learning basic self-defense. But I thought that apologizing would be an appropriately cheesy thing to do."

Aziraphale shook his head before leaning down to kiss Crowley gently on the mouth. When he pulled away, it was to see an oddly anxious look on the demon's face.

"What is it?" he asked.

Crowley looked away. "Did…_they _talk to you about…that?"

Aziraphale couldn't help but smile again. "They just told me to be careful. And if I haven't Fallen _yet_…" He leaned down again to nuzzle the demon's neck.

"I was scared they weren't going to send you back down," Crowley admitted in a quick gasp. Aziraphale sat up again, giving him a questioning look.

Crowley averted his eyes again. "Yeah," he said. "First I was just pissed about you being dead, so I got plastered. But then, after a day or two and you hadn't come back and I was still drunk, I realized that now would be the perfect opportunity for them to recall you. You know, as punishment for the Apocalypse thing." His voice cracked just once as he spoke, and for a moment Aziraphale could see how utterly miserable the demon had been without him.

The angel blinked. "I'm sorry," he said again, but just sounded confused this time.

Crowley seemed to realize that he was not behaving very demonically and needed to cover up, quick. "Shut up," Crowley muttered before pulling the angel in for a rough, needy kiss, marred by anger and relief at the same time.

Later, they would talk more. They would talk about what became of the murderer. They would talk about Aziraphale's brief stint in Heaven. They would talk about Crowley's drunken tyranny over his houseplants. They would talk about death and life and the like, and life would go on.

But first there was the matter of acquainting Crowley with Aziraphale's new corporation…

* * *

**_(A/N) _**

**_Uh...huh. Yeah. About halfway through, I think I kind of forgot where I was going with this chapter. XD Do forgive me. I've been having the most awful writers' block. I promise the next chapter won't be as bad as this one._**

**_I readily admit that I wrote that little mini-essay on Limbo _just so _I could get Aziraphale mugged again. It's kind of a big-lipped-alligator moment, though, isn't it? Sorry about shooting the angel, guys, but I needed some half-angst._**

**_Note: I may use Limbo again for another, later chapter, so watch out for that. ;)_**

**_Much love,  
Miyazaki A2_**


	18. Great War

A young blonde angel sprinted across the long, expansive cloud, one hand clutching a now-not-flaming sword, the other pressing hard against a deep gash over his ribs. There was a small wall separating what was now a battlefield from some other angel's garden. The blonde sheathed his sword as he ran, and he jumped just as he neared the wall. He glided over the wall easily, and landed rather heavily on the other side, letting out a soft grunt.

Now that he was hidden and relatively safe, he pulled his wings in and scooted back until he was leaning up against the bricks. He took a deep, steadying breath and closed his eyes, still fingering the fresh wound on his side. He opened his eyes again to examine the silvery-red blood that stained his robe and fingers, and he sighed. He would need a good several minutes before his wound would heal and he could go back out and rejoin the battle. Those rebels weren't going to give up any time soon, and _he _couldn't, either.

He was suddenly removed from his thoughts by the sound of someone clearing their throat quite conspicuously. A small gasp escaped his lips and his head whipped around towards the noise, his hand reaching instinctively for the hilt of his sword.

But it was only another angel, obviously not a hostile rebel, who now had a finger against his lips. He had chocolate-brown curls that fell in ringlets around his head, and he had intense greenish-gold eyes, the color of tarnished brass. The blonde vaguely recognized him as a member of what could be loosely considered his own age-group, meaning only that they had been Created around the same time. There may have even been playmates at some point very early on in their Existence. He'd taken a blow to the head recently and couldn't seem to quite remember.

"What are you doing here?" the blonde asked in an extremely small, cautious voice, not at all desiring to alert anyone else to their presence.

The brunette had lines of anger creasing his youthful face. The blonde had never seen another angel's face contorted like that before today. And even today that look had been reserved to those actively in battle. "Same thing as you," the angry one replied. "I'm hiding."

"Are you hurt as well?" the blonde asked, self-consciously tearing off a bit of his robe so he could apply some pressure to his somewhat gaping wound.

The brunette eyed the blood that speckled his companion's clothes and shook his head. "No. I'm just not fighting."

The blonde's celestial blue eyes widened in blatant shock. "That's an option? But I thought…" He paused and looked his companion over. "Wait, do you mean you don't even have a sword?! That's dangerous! The rebels will kill you if they find you!"

A spark of what could almost be called shame passed over the other angel's sullen features. "You know, most of those rebels are _friends _of mine."

A sudden moment of petulance, as well as a good amount of hurt, flashed through the blonde angel, and he looked away from his companion with a huff. "Some friends," he muttered. "I wonder which one it was that tried to cut me in half."

More of the anger fled the other angel's face, replaced by an even deeper shame. When he spoke, it was in a guarded, placating tone. "Well…maybe if you didn't fight…"

But the caution was for naught, because the blonde whipped his head around to face him again. "I'm fighting for _God!_" he cried passionately.

The brunette recoiled from the passion, all thoughts of appeasement abruptly lost. He'd recently begun to have some Doubts about this God guy, and he couldn't really understand the angels that were willing to relinquish their lives for Him. It didn't make any sense. Whatever happened to self-preservation?

"Yeah, well, you almossst got cut in half for Him, too!" the brunette replied scathingly, so suddenly furious that the lisp he tried so hard to repress broke through his teeth.

The blonde had never met anyone so cold-blooded, at least not anyone who wasn't actively trying to overthrow Him. He couldn't understand. He stood up quickly, his wings releasing themselves again. "Forget it," he half-growled. "I can't talk to you anymore. I have to go back out and keep defending _our home_."

The brunette's face paled. "Hey, idiot, I thought you were wounded," he said a little hysterically, suddenly desperate not to be left alone. He'd rather have Goddamned annoying company than no company at all…what if one of the rebels that _wasn't _a friend of his found him…?

But the blonde, his long wavy hair blowing fitfully in the foreboding wind, took his hand off his ribs and revealed only a large tear in his clothes and a long pink scar.

"Whoa," said his companion.

"We heal fast," the blonde said, smiling a little. "You'd know that if you ever let yourself get hurt."

The brunette glared and was going to say something to that, but the blonde hopped on top of the wall before he could get a chance. The brunette scrambled to his feet and watched as his companion took off into the air.

"Goodbye!" the blonde called over his shoulder, already having forgiven the other angel for his verbal transgressions. He was an angel, after all, and he had more important things to be unforgiving about.

"Uh, okay. Bye!" Then, he added, "Don't die!"

He heard the blonde laugh and call back, "Alright. Don't Fall!"

The brunette hissed in distaste under his breath. Doubts or no Doubts, he certainly did not _plan _to Fall, and he stuck his tongue out at the idea.

* * *

**_(A/N)_**

**_Hope you can tell, but it's set during Lucifer's rebellion, before the Great Fall. I think I've refered to it as the Great War in other chapters..._**

**_I kind of included more of Crowley's future traits than Aziraphale's. There just wasn't any real chance to talk about how 'Zira would be a bookworm someday...Hmm._**

**_This chapter is really more of a blurb of a scene than an actual one-shot. It's not even 1,000 words...ah well, I like it. It's short and a little abrupt because this was originally going to be a comic to submit on deviantART, but the drawings didn't work out. I still liked the script/dialogue/whatever, so here we are. Full circle._**

**_Hope you enjoyed!  
Miyazaki-A2_**


	19. Second and First Times

They did not jump into bed with each other the same night of their first kiss. They were not suddenly completely comfortable with each other's bodies and feelings. It took time.

They spent all of New Year's Day together, but did not touch any more than just to grasp one another's hands every now and then. Each one of these occurrences was followed by an embarrassed laugh from one and a nervous cough from the other.

The day after that, they heard nothing from each other. The mutual absence lasted until the seventh day of the New Year, after which their seemingly binding kisses were not mentioned again…for another week, at least.

* * *

**January 14****th****  
The Year After the World Did Not End**

They were neither drunk nor drinking. They were not at the bookshop or Crowley's flat, even. They were at St. James' Park, and they'd learned from one unfortunate experience that this was not the place for public intoxication.

Aziraphale was saying something about the Deadly Sins versus the Heavenly Virtues, but Crowley was only half-listening. Oh, he looked like he was listening intently to the angel, but in truth he was just staring at his face. The angel's eyes tended to flash a brighter blue when he was making a point he really believed in, and right now his eyes were flashing like mad. Perhaps that meant that he _should _have been listening, but he was too distracted. Those eyes were rather mesmerizing, actually. Weren't it snakes who were supposed to have the hypnotic eyes…?

But then Aziraphale said the demon's name, sounding a trifle annoyed, and Crowley snapped to attention, looking into the angel's eyes instead of just _at _them. "What?" he asked eloquently.

Aziraphale rolled his now-peaceful eyes. "Were you listening to me at all, my dear?"

Crowley flashed a reckless grin. "No, not really."

Aziraphale's eyes were now soft and indulgent, as was his voice. "Well, that's alright, I suppose. It isn't as if I was saying anything important." Another roll of his eyes. "Might I inquire as to what you were thinking about to make you so distracted?"

Crowley opened his mouth to say something sardonic and completely unhelpful, but then he closed it again. He looked around furtively as if he was concerned about someone listening in. When he saw the coast was clear, he smiled teasingly. "I was watching your eyes." He said it in such a way that it sounded simply like he was teasing the angel, rather than telling him the exceedingly un-demonic truth.

Teasing or not, though, whatever Aziraphale had expected to come out of the demon's mouth certainly had not been _that_. His mouth hung open for a moment, and then he blushed—_Score! _thought Crowley—and turned away. "Ah," he said.

Crowley laughed at the look on the angel's face and, without thinking, grabbed the angel's chin and twisted it so they faced each other again. "Don't get so flustered," he muttered wryly, his voice only for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale's eyes were wide for a moment, then softened again, lids slowly lowering to half-mast as he relaxed into his friend's touch.

Then, Crowley gave in to two weeks' worth of awkwardness and suppressed feelings, and he leaned in to give the angel a soft, strangely chaste kiss, spectators be damned. Aziraphale only made a small noise before relaxing into _this _touch as well. Kissing sober, he noted, was just nice—if not nicer—than kissing drunk.

After only a few seconds, the angel pulled away. "So you've decided we're going to keep doing this, then?" he asked very quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. One of his eyebrows rose expectantly, and he smiled.

Crowley's eyes narrowed, almost rebelliously. Aziraphale didn't know how he could tell what the demon's eyes were doing from behind the sunglasses, but he could.

"Yeah, I have," Crowley almost growled before kissing the angel again, this time with more fervor. All the other park-goers simultaneously remembered that they'd left their kitchen stoves on.

* * *

**A Few Months Later**

Crowley's mouth moved up from the angel's lips to his forehead, to his temple, then all the way down to his collarbone, which was exposed by a few conveniently unbuttoned buttons. Aziraphale shivered quite un-angelically under the demon's touch. They'd been sharing a bed for the past several weeks, as Crowley had thought that it would be important for the angel to learn how to sleep, but this was the first time that their activities in the bed progressed this far past cuddling…it was quite thrilling.

The demon misinterpreted the shudder and looked up. "You don't have to worry," he said in a low undertone, a hint of comforting humor coloring the tenderness. "I don't think you're going to Fall or anything for this."

Aziraphale didn't think he was going to Fall either, but he was fascinated by the determined, almost defiant look in his golden eyes. He took on that look every once in a while when he said something tender, as if he was challenging Someone to dare and prove him wrong.

"Er," said Aziraphale, "how do you figure?"

Crowley's mouth returned to the angel's skin, and he smiled against the flesh, making Aziraphale shiver again. "It's my job to know these things. I have to know what fills my quota and what doesn't. I mean, obviously homosexuality isn't a sin, or else you would have Fallen a few months ago…" _If not a few millennia,_ he didn't say, because it didn't fit the mood.

"We're not homosexual—we're sexless," Aziraphale muttered absent-mindedly, his eyes drifting closed for a few seconds. His hands began to roam as if only to contradict his words.

Crowley laughed and murmured something along the lines of "Not for long," before unbuttoning the rest of the angel's shirt.

Aziraphale had to keep talking to hide the fact that he was in fact a little nervous. "What about the Lust part of the equation? You've told me about loads of souls you've had damned for their actions caused by Lust…"

Crowley made a small noise and—as gently as he could, being a demon and all—pushed the angel onto his back on the mattress. His movements were slow and possessive as he kissed down the angel's chest, keeping his face deliberately out of Aziraphale's line of sight.

"Well, yeah," he said, "but there are other things to consider…"

"Like—like what?" the angel gasped, positively writhing under the demon's touch.

Crowley's mouth broke into a smile again. It was such a strange sensation to feel Crowley grin against his skin, but not at all unpleasant. "Sins plus sins equal more sins," he explained slowly. "People who use Lust to further their reaches for power, to supply their Greed—those people belong to Hell…" He paused and finally brought his face back to where Aziraphale could see, and his reptilian eyes blazed with the thoughts and emotions he wasn't sure how to express in words. "But, Aziraphale, if there are _feelings_, actual feelings, behind the Lust…then how can anyone get in trouble? That'd be like condemning any happily married couple with a good sex-life." He smiled dryly.

The look in Crowley's eyes as he said the word _feelings _was enough to make the angel's heart skip a beat. He had no doubt that he himself held such feelings, but the confirmation that those feelings were even in some small way requited…well, it was overwhelming.

"My _dear_," he breathed, and pulled the demon's mouth back down to his own, kissing him with all the passion he could muster.

* * *

**_(A/N)_**

**_I feel as though I'm straddling a very, very thin line between believable tenderness and blatant OOC!Fluff lately. What can you do, though? I'm really enjoying it. ;O;_**

**_As always, do forgive me. I hope nobody hates this~~  
XD_**

**_Much love,  
Miyazaki A2_**


	20. Cottage

**_(A/N #1) _**

**_This is based off what Neil Gaiman said in an interview one time -- that at some point after the failed Aramgeddon, Crowley and Aziraphale would go off to share a cottage in the South Downs. Whoo!_**

* * *

Aziraphale set the last of his boxes down, and straightened up to get another look at his new study. It was a cozy, warm room with enough space for his computer desk and three large bookcases. It had one little window to let the sun in, although the angel would most likely keep the blinds down to protect the books he'd brought over from London.

He heard Crowley thumping around in the next room over and smiled. Crowley had brought his entire flat's worth of houseplants to the cottage, unlike Aziraphale, who had brought only his favorite books and left the rest in storage, guarded by a monk named Stephan. The angel could hear the demon muttering low threats to the plants as he arranged them meticulously around the small house. His smile broadened.

He stooped down again to open the box at his feet with a newly manifested box-cutter, and the scent of the old paper that wafted out of it was a welcoming, homey thing. In all honesty, he could just _wish _the books onto their shelves, but he felt it was calming to put everything in its proper place by hand. It was like nesting. It had been with no small amount of reticence that the angel and demon had pulled up their roots in London to come to this little cottage in the South Downs, so anything they could do to make themselves more comfortable was welcome.

This new cohabitation was an experiment of sorts. In the past, in London, they could go days, weeks, sometimes even months without seeing one another. Before they'd shared a city, that time-frame of separation was often measured in years and decades. Granted, since the birth of the Antichrist and the averted Apocalypse, they'd seen each other on a nearly daily basis, but that was different from _living _together. They sort of wanted to see if they could do it.

Aziraphale had just about half-way filled the first massive bookcase when Crowley appeared in the doorway. Aziraphale gave him a smile, which was returned by a sardonic twist of the demon's lips.

"You're still unpacking? You could go a lot faster if you just…" He made a jerky little gesture with his index finger and a rather hefty volume flew up onto a shelf.

Aziraphale gave a little _tut _and shifted the book a little to the left. Crowley _knew _he was nesting; now the demon was just being peevish.

"I suppose you just wished your plants around the house then?"

"Nah, just some of the furniture so far. I've been manhandling the plants. Er, demon-handling them, I suppose." He allowed his sunglasses to slide a little down the bridge of his nose as he leant rather elegantly against the doorframe. "I don't plan on doing _all _the work with the furniture, by the way."

Aziraphale had begun working on his books again, but now he stopped and looked up. "I thought you just said that you've been wishing the furniture into place." A wicked smile found its way onto his angelic face. "If I were involved, we would be carrying it in."

Crowley blanched at the idea. "Dirty bastard," he muttered as he left the room. Aziraphale laughed and kept working.

--

He had nearly filled the second bookcase when his friend slithered in again.

"Are you hungry?" asked Crowley.

Aziraphale snorted. "Are either of us ever _really_ hungry, my dear?" he responded without looking at the demon.

"Do you want any lunch?" he tried again.

The angel placed another book on the shelf. "I think I had better wait until I've finished with this."

Crowley peered down at the remaining boxes of books with nothing short of a glare. "How long will _that _take? Will it be dinner by the time you're ready for lunch?"

"Will you starve if I take a bit longer?"

"I could try."

Aziraphale laughed again, and Crowley stalked out with a huff.

--

He returned not forty minutes later with a bag of Chinese takeout. Aziraphale wondered idly how fast he'd had to drive and how many people he'd had to knock aside to get to it. He honestly couldn't think of where the nearest Chinese restaurant was. He watched from the corners of his eyes as the demon sauntered over to the angel's desk and sat himself down. He masterfully, gracefully even, used his chopsticks to bring his boxed noodles to his lips, and Aziraphale was momentarily distracted from his busywork by a wave of envy. Whenever _he _attempted the same feat, Aziraphale always needed to use a fork.

Crowley saw the angel's preoccupation and smirked, stretching his long legs out and leaning languidly far back in the office chair. "I finished setting the furniture up," he said conversationally. "Even moved the bed upstairs into the bedroom."

The suggestiveness in the way he made that last statement was borderline ridiculous. The angel decided to counter-attack with an extra dollop of cluelessness. "That's nice, dear. Thank you. My word, but I have so many books to put away."

Crowley, still half-sprawled in the chair, glared at Aziraphale. For another minute, he ate broodingly from the folded box that rested on his stomach, but then he growled in complete distaste, stood up in a rush…and proceeded in helping the angel put the rest of his books away.

"Thank you, Crowley."

"Shut up."

* * *

**_(A/N #2) _**

**_Haha, fluff! This is really just a blurb of a scene more than anything else, but that's alright. I've been feeling blurby recently. It lets me get lots of fluff in small amounts of space. This suits me. Yay._**

**_Much love,  
Miyazaki A2_**


	21. Euphemism

Aziraphale walks around this world of ours, and he meets people. He subtly affects people's courses, changes their minds, and touches their hearts. He spreads peace and goodwill and love, because he's an angel. It's his job.

Most people he meets take very little notice of him, because he isn't in their lives for long. He is present just long enough to give comfort or offer strength. Usually the effects of his encounters do not set in for a while, and the memory of his is transient at best. But it gets the job done.

But sometimes he meets people who, for some reasons or another, can recognize him for what he is. They see him, and a light flickers on in their eyes. They gravitate towards him, as if their very soul recognizes the help he has to offer.

Unfortunately, by some great cosmic coincidence, these souls are usually the most difficult ones to help. Often, they even have a greater effect on _him _than he has on them.

For example, a few decades after the end of the world, after he and Crowley had moved away from London to share a little cottage in the South Downs, he met a young American woman whose husband was on death row back home. She was on holiday in the South Downs to 'get away from it all', and she happened to glance in his direction just as he was walking out of a supermarket. As if suddenly realizing her purpose in England, she walked right up to Aziraphale and asked him to have a coffee with her. He saw the light in her eyes that told him not to refuse, and she led him to a nearby café, a little local place with cozy little nooks and crannies so none of the other patrons would hear their conversation.

Once there, she launched into her husband's story, barely taking the time to even introduce herself. She told of how her husband had killed two of his cousins as retribution for some great injustice that even his wife didn't understand. As she spoke, her hand kept straying to the little gold cross that hung from her neck. It became apparent that this little woman was one of the few people in this highly modernized world who still believed whole-heartedly that the Bible was the Ultimate Truth. And as such, she was convinced that her husband was on his way to Hell.

But that wasn't the only thing readily apparent about this woman, about this soul. When she said her husband's name, her eyes flashed a brighter shade of green. Eyes truly are windows to the soul, and these eyes revealed a deep, soul-touching Love for her wayward husband. She was an unfortunate creature who had found her perfect match, her soul-mate, only to have him stolen away from her. Aziraphale doubted she would live very long after her husband's execution.

The problem was this: She could not _handle_ being eternally separated from the soul that made her own whole. It would surely destroy her. She wanted to know how she—a kind, religious, law-abiding soul—could remain with her murderous lover in the hereafter.

Aziraphale looked down at his hands, unsure what to say.

"I suppose I could always go to Hell with him," she offered after long last, speaking very slowly, deliberately. "Heaven…wouldn't _be _Heaven without him. Do you understand?"

Aziraphale _did _understand, but didn't say so. Instead, he asked a stupid question. "Is your husband really worth eternal damnation, my dear?"

"Yes," the American said. "Do you think that's what I should do? Go to Hell?"

"Er," said Aziraphale helplessly, showing her his palms as if they held all the answers his mind did not. "It isn't really your choice. You go where you, eh, belong. You can choose to be Bad or Good and all that, but it…sort of ends there. After that, it's all about where you _belong, _based on your behavior here on Earth. Does that make sense?"

She didn't hesitate, didn't flinch. "I _belong_ with my husband."

He sighed. "I thought you might say that." He paused and gave her a pleading look. "My dear, I'm not in charge of who goes where. That's, er, above my pay-grade, as it were." Another pause. "I am sorry, though."

That was that, really. As an angel, Aziraphale just could _not _advise her on how to damn herself. That…that just wouldn't have been right…would it?

After that, he thought of the encounter often. It plagued his mind in the moments between jobs and reading and Crowley. He wished that he had had more to offer the human in her time of obvious need of guidance. He hated feeling useless.

He told Crowley about the human once, as they laid in their bed during the wee hours of the night. Crowley had listened surprisingly closely, as if the conversation somehow affected him personally.

"Dunno, Aziraphale," he said at one point. "Hell will take anyone they can get. If this lady wants to go, they'll let her in. Not 'cause they're romantic Down There or anything. I just think they'd enjoy spitting in Heaven's eye over it."

"I'm sure of that. I just don't know. Heaven is rather protective of Good souls. And this soul was very Good."

"Minus the bit about being willing to sacrifice a place in God's Kingdom in order to stay with her Damned, murderous husband."

The cool, calculated way Crowley offered this statement made Aziraphale shiver and scoot a little ways away from him.

The conversation halted then, but their words now weighed down silently on them. They sat in uncomfortable silence for about five minutes until, at length, Aziraphale murmured, "I can't say I blame her. Love does strange things to one's judgment."

Crowley grunted in assent, and his fingers briefly strayed to tangle themselves in the angel's hair. Then he announced, "I wonder how her husband feels about his wife's little plan. I wouldn't be all that pleased, were I him."

Aziraphale laughed. "That would be exceedingly selfless of him, to deny her desire to stay with him."

"He may as _well _be selfless now. It was a selfish thing to do to get himself Damned. If he wanted a chance at eternal happiness with his lover, he should have thought more before committing murder in cold blood."

There was something in the demon's voice that made Aziraphale have to look over at him. Crowley's face was pale and hard, and he wouldn't meet the angel's eyes. The strangest part was, though his words were tinged with sarcasm and mild disgust, his reptilian eyes spoke with deep, ancient sadness. Aziraphale didn't understand.

"My dear?"

Crowley ignored him. "Thing is, he probably _won't _object to his wife Fel—er, Damning herself for him." Crowley shut his mouth quickly. Had it not been so dark, Aziraphale would have sworn that he saw the demon's face flush.

Aziraphale's heart stuttered at the implications of the slip, but he showed Crowley the small mercy of not mentioning it. Instead, he shrugged, and murmured cautiously, "Well, it doesn't really matter…"

"No, it does. Ugh. Why did you have to bring this up?"

"It was bothering me. I needed to talk about it."

Crowley scoffed and still couldn't look at the angel. "It's not something you need to even be thinking about, though. Just shut up about it."

So Aziraphale did. He knew he wouldn't be allowed to say what he'd been thinking of saying. He'd been thinking: _You know, I think I understand how she feels because, well, I think I'd Fall for you if I had to, if it was the only way to stay with you after the real Armageddon. It's about the same idea, isn't it? I just feel bad for her._

Crowley knew very well how Aziraphale felt on this subject, and he hated it. Aziraphale wasn't a Being meant for Falling. He was a relatively kind angel, one who liked tartan and old books and ducks. For love or not, Falling wouldn't be acceptable for him. He'd only regret it if he Fell, and then where would they end up? Crowley had time and time again told Aziraphale how he felt on this subject, and yet here the angel was, implying he'd give up everything he was for _love._

Granted, if Crowley hadn't loved the angel back, he probably would have invited the angel's Felling. In fact, as a demon, he probably should have actively promoted the idea. But some things transcend job descriptions, so they would just have to find another option. Since the world _wouldn't _last forever, it was important that they find a way to stay together, as had long since been established. But Falling wasn't the right way.

--

Aziraphale kept tabs on the American woman, and three years after their meeting, her husband's execution was filled out. Much to the angel's badly-hidden despair, the woman took her own life a little less than six months later.

A few months after that, Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves at a little pond near their cottage. (The ducks here weren't nearly as smart as the ones in St. James, but they were indeed ducks, so they would have to do.) They had not mentioned the American woman since her death, but she still crept into their minds at sporadic intervals. In fact, Crowley had even done a little research…

"Limbo," he said at a quite random point in their conversation.

Aziraphale got caught in the middle of a thought and looked at Crowley in complete incomprehension. "Er, what?"

"Limbo," Crowley said again. "Those Americans—they went to Limbo." He met the angel's gaze, quite a feat in his sunglasses, and smiled ruefully. "I asked around Downstairs. The imps that work down in the Cataloguing Department are real chatty, and they're pretty much the only entities Down There that aren't calling for my eternal torture for the whole averting-Armageddon thing." He took a deep breath to get himself back on track. "Anyway, they're surprisingly organized, so when I asked about those Americans, they told me right off that they went to Limbo. It was because of _Obnoxiously Conflicting Interests_, they told me." He had to stop himself from grinning in triumph.

Aziraphale made no such attempt. His face split into a broad, openly relieved smile. His voice even trembled a bit when he spoke. "Really? You're serious?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'm serious. Don't get all sappy on me, though. I only found out because I was sick of you moping over it. Seriously, you'd think after four years you wouldn't care anymore."

Right then, Aziraphale could have pulled Crowley into a tight embrace. But instead, he just reached out and grasped his friend's hand. "That's fantastic news," he said softly, laugh-lines crinkling up at the corners of his eyes. "That _really is_ just _fantastic _news."

* * *

**_(A/N)_**

**_So yeah. The Americans were supposed to be sort of a euphemism for Aziraphale and Crowley. One of the very best Post-Real-Armageddon fics I've read had them ending up in Limbo together, so neither one of them had to Fall or Rise or change themselves too much. It was really nice. I was trying to refer to that possibility with this, albeit sloppily._**

**_I hope that this sort of wraps up the Falling angst for a while. I may touch on Crowley Rising a bit at a later date, because I feel like I'm saving all the angst for Azzi, but also maybe I won't. That idea just has so much possibility for being awfuly angsty or sappy or whatever. Basically, I haven't decided. Any of you have any opinions on the matter?_**

**_See you in a bit._**

**_Much love,  
Miyazaki A2_**


	22. Eden, Part Deux

_"I've never met an angel who would be so kind to the demon that helped ruin all His plans. You'd think an angel would be ssswifter to sssmite their Enemy."_

_Aziraphale smiled. "Perhaps this week has ended on a bad enough note without further violence." It sounded like the sort of lame excuse one used when one had nothing better. Then, his brow furrowed, and his face darkened a shade. "I forgot you were the Enemy for a minute there." He took a step backwards._

_Crawly laughed. "Come back here, angel. I'm not done with you."_

_Aziraphale inched closer, a hesitant smile tugging at his lips, and was rewarded with a swift, extremely playful nip on the earlobe from the snake._

_They parted ways soon afterwards._

* * *

Crawly sniggered impishly as the angel took his leave of him. But the humor didn't last long, though. He remembered his declaration that he'd stay on Earth just like the angel would, and also remembered that he didn't exactly have the authority to say something like that.

But he hadn't been recalled back down yet, so he figured that he'd be alright for a bit. Letting out a sigh of relief that probably wasn't biologically possible for a serpent, he settled snuggly down on his branch and fell asleep for the first time in his existence.

The next morning, he set about getting down from the tree the angel had stuck him in. His little claim about getting down when he had legs was just him showing off. He knew that this body had always been meant to be somewhat temporary, and as such, there was no way to get a human-shaped corporation on his own. Once he was recalled, maybe he could try to find a way to swindle one out of Hell and convince them to let him come back up.

He'd slithered into a nice patch of grass to sunbathe in when he suddenly realized that Hell might not _let _him come back up. Maybe they'd send a more brutal demon, one who wouldn't make conversation with the Enemy.

He was suddenly hit by a feeling that could only be described as…well, as a sort of remorse. Not for getting Man to sin or anything, no no no…he was just a little unhappy at finishing his job so damn quickly. He'd only been on Earth for a little while, and now he was going back to Hell. Too bad, really. Earth was nice, even in this inconvenient body. He liked the sun and the grass and all that business. It was very much preferable to fire and brimstone, at least.

It was with this thought in mind that he realized that his scales were sort of tingling, and he knew that he was going Down _already_. Crawly sighed.

--

Crawly knew that his name had not always been Crawly. He'd been a demon for quite a long time, but before that he'd been an angel, and he supposed that he must have had an angelic name at that point. He couldn't quite remember it though, much to his disdain. He remembered that it had been a very fine name. But then he Fell. On impact, he'd broken the majority of his limbs, and he'd been forced to crawl across the ground on his belly to keep out of the way of the more able-bodied and brutal demons. Said demons had never been the overly imaginative sort, and many of them had the countenance of a schoolyard bully, so when they saw him crawling brokenly around, they dubbed him Crawly. The name stuck, even after his body had healed.

He really hated it. It didn't suit him at all.

It'd been a big joke when they'd sent him up to Earth in the form of a serpent, and he was right when he thought that everybody would get a good laugh out of God's '_crawl on your belly in the dust' _verdict.

In short, once he got back to Hell, Crawly was mortified.

"Well, well, well. Welcome back, Crawly," said Beelzebub with a buzzing snigger as Crawly stretched his long, wiry arms and legs appreciatively at the Gate of Hell.

"Hey," said Crawly, sheepishly.

"That was szzzome work with the apple up there," the Prince continued, giving a distorted version of a smile. "Original szzzin and all that. And here everyone was wondering how you'd manage to szzzcrew everything up. You may even get a commendation for it."

Crawly supposed that that was meant as a sort of compliment. That was strange. "Uh. Thanks."

Beelzebub gave his grotesque smile again. He looked a little different from when Crawly had last seen him. He looked a little…animalistic. Before Crawly had gone topside, all the demons in Hell looked…well, they looked like gloomier and fiercer versions of angels, frankly. Now, they seemed to be specifically designed to scare the living daylights out of anybody who looked at them. What changed?

Crawly decided he didn't want to think about it. He shuffled his newly regained feet. "So yeah," he said. "Mankind's got its first bit of corruption. Yay us."

"Indeed," said Beelzebub. "We can most certainly count thiszzz one as a success."

"Yeah, sure," Crawly went on. "But, uh, we're not gonna just leave it there, right?"

The Prince looked thoughtful. "Hmm?"

Crawly smiled shakily. "You see, there's ssso much more to be done up there. There won't be just the two people for much longer, and there's an _angel _that's staying up there with them."

Beelzebub straightened up. It was a strangely jerky movement, unnatural. "An angel? That won't do. Whatever happened to equal represzzzentaion?"

Crawly's grin became wild. "That'sss exactly what I was asking myself."

--

And so Crawly was stationed on Earth, with the sole purpose of Damning human souls in order to bring about Armageddon.

Crawly scoffed. _Armageddon_. These fellows sure did like to plan ahead, didn't they? But that was the job description, so what could you do?

They'd sent him up and he'd appeared on some hilltop, not a human in sight. He hissed under his breath.

_Yeah,_ he thought, _drop me off where I can't do my job. That's fantastic._

--

He eventually made his way down the hill, and for a while, he just walked. Hell hadn't skimped out when they'd commissioned him this human body. It was tall and long and could move almost as gracefully as his previous reptilian corporation. It was shaped rather like his demonic form, though of course it was lacking in his dark wings.

As he wandered the Earth in search of mankind, he allowed himself to feel a little silent appreciation for this relatively new planet that God had created. It was nice to just walk places, all alone, bathing in the sun. He wondered how long it would take the humans to screw it all up.

At one point, it also occurred to him to wonder how much time had passed since his time spent in Eden. He knew that time didn't really mean the same thing in Hell as it did on Earth. He first thought to wonder this when he finally came across humans, and they didn't really look a thing like Adam and Eve. Had he been gone long enough that those two had populated the Earth this far? Or did God put them here, just to help those two along?

He knew he wasn't likely to get an answer, so he decided he didn't care. What was it called? Ineffable? Yeah. That was it.

So instead of questioning, he got to work with all the enthusiasm of a new employee in an exciting new job.

His first order of business was to ingratiate himself into the little society he'd found, become a member of the human race, as it were. The tribe was a trusting little group, and they didn't ask many questions. They had no reason to distrust or suspect strangers. Yet.

They were a hunter-gatherer group with limited resources that everyone shared. It was all too easy for Crawly to encourage some of the tribesmen to start hoarding food for themselves. It was almost hilarious how susceptible these new, naïve humans were to cunning little lines like, _"You do most of the work around here. You struck the final killing blow on that pig. Shouldn't you get most of the food?"_

He even came up with wild stories about his 'previous village', teaching his little tribe about the ways of pagan gods that he made up on the spot. He even convinced them to start sacrificing a portion of their hunt to the gods. He was rather proud of the chaos that ensued.

After no less than ten years, by his count, his little tribe was corrupt and violent. Bad job well done and all that. He moved on.

This was how he spent at least a couple of centuries. Being new at the job and all, he had to say that he was rather high of job-satisfaction. Humans were easily corruptible, and most of them needed even less encouragement than Eve did to sin.

…Key words: Most of them. He discovered something during his travels. Although a good lot of the humans were all for this sin thing, they all still seemed to remember the difference between Good and Evil, between Right and Wrong. Many of them felt regret when they were bad, and many more, really a good bunch of them, actually chose to be good! There were actually people out there who weren't affected by Crawly. Oh, they noticed him, noticed his work, but rather than throwing them into the pits of despair, they were _bettered _for it. Crawly really hoped that his superiors would mark that down to the work of the angel, wherever _he _was.

--

All this time, Crawly continued to think about this name business. People all over the place had names, fine names, too. None that he particularly wanted to take on, mind you, but they were all generally better than 'Crawly.'

There was one point when he was living quite comfortably in a small camp by a river. The fpeople here were kindly towards travelers, as there were quite a few that followed the river, and that detail was gold for Crawly's business. They'd set him up with his own little tent and shared more food with him than they ate themselves. Crawly was always entertained by this food business. It was completely unnecessary for him to eat, and yet he did because, frankly, food was damn good! It was downright sinful. No small wonder that Eve gave up the grace of her species for a bit of food…

There was a young girl who came to deliver his dinner to him, as he usually holed up in his tent during the frigid evenings. She was perhaps seven, and one of those wide-eyed innocents who could either be Crawly's easiest victim or his easiest enemy.

As it was, this girl seemed to prefer the idea of being his friend. She had something of a fascination with his eyes, which had remained reptilian since his acquisition of this new body. It made Crawly uncomfortable, considering that his job was to more or less ruin her life.

One of the first days she knew him, she asked his name.

Crawly shifted uneasily and mumbled it for her. She gave him a look and repeated it, although somehow her childish voice turned the 'aw' sound into an 'oh' sound.

"No," said Crawly. "It's Cr_aw_ly. _Crawly_."

She gave him a sweet smile, completely open and trusting. "Oh, okay. Well, I think I like _Crowley_ better."

Crawly gave one of his rare blinks, and simply had to agree.

--

Crowley continued to wander, although now he avoided small children who could make him feel guilty about his job description. It was so much easier to tempt adults and not hate yourself.

Eventually he made it to a forested area that felt…strangely familiar to him. In addition to that, for the first time since acquiring his new body, he felt a spark of another otherworldly presence.

Interest piqued, Crowley followed the aura until he came upon the source. In the middle of the forest, there was a strange circular clearing, and in that clearing, there was an angel. He was obviously the same angel that had guarded the East Gate, with the same golden curls and pale skin. His back was to Crowley, but he was instantly recognizable due to the ethereal glow that surrounded him. Granted, this may have been a result of the sun filtering in through the surrounding trees, but it was all the same to Crowley. This was Aziraphale, no doubt.

Crowley's first instinct was to run. His next was to attack. To a demon, an angel was an enemy, and it was smite or be smitten. To _Crowley_, an angel was a stuck-up, overly righteous bastard, and it was smite or get annoyed out of your bloody mind directly _before _being smitten.

But Crowley remembered _this _angel. This angel wasn't as smite-happy as the other ones he remembered from Heaven. This one had let the Serpent, the creator of Original Sin, survive when, at least to his superiors, it probably would have been a better idea to enact Righteous Justice upon his head. That had to mean something.

Crowley smirked. Well now, maybe all he had to do here was gauge if the angel had had a change of heart in the last couple centuries…

Silently, Crowley climbed up onto a low-hanging branch of a nearby tree, pressing up against the bark of the tree to keep out of sight. As it was, the angel wasn't looking for him. He was looking around the clearing, obviously moping over something. Crowley didn't have to take long to figure out what it was that was bothering him. After only a few minutes, he finally recognized the feeling that was permeating the air, the earth, everything around this place. This was a holy place. It wasn't an ethereal holiness like the angel; no, it was an earthly holiness.

This was where the Garden once stood.

_Damn_, thought Crowley, _it's gone. I didn't think it would ever just be gone. _For the second time since reaching Earth, Crowley felt a pang of regret for his bad job well done with the apple. Eden had been beautiful, comfortable. Even a demon could appreciate beauty. To think that it was gone…

He shook his head once he realized that the angel was approaching his perch. Quickly, he swung to a slightly higher branch to make sure the angel didn't see him. The angel still looked bloody depressed, and Crowley grimaced; it wasn't a good look for the angel. The angel leant right up against Crowley's tree, and let out a little sigh. Crowley smiled again. All he had to do was piss the angel off a little bit, and see how he reacted.

Quickly think up an idea, he ran the tip of his tongue over his sharp teeth as the angel pushed a curl behind his ear. That could work. With snakelike muscle-control and speed, Crowley stretched down from his branch and bit the angel right on that ear.

The angel yelped and whirled around, looking for all the world like he was going to scream a curse, but then he did something strange. He met Crowley's gaze, and paused. Crowley held his breath, waiting for the smiting…

…the smiting that did not come.

The angel was staring openly at Crowley, mouth still open around whatever it was that he'd been going to say.

Then: "_Crawly?_" The angel backed up a few steps.

Crowley was taken aback, though of course he was sure not to let his face show it. He had barely expected the angel to recognize his aura, let alone remember his name. And where was the smiting?

He decided he didn't want to give the angel a chance to _decide _to smite him, so he feigned a confident bravado. No need to show the angel his nerves.

* * *

_The demon smiled, showing off his gleaming teeth. "Not any more. Changed it when I got the new corporation." He jumped down from the branch and landed gracefully on his bare feet, ending up directly in front of Aziraphale. "It's _Crowley_now."_

_The angel regarded the man-shaped occult entity with mild distaste and even milder amusement. "There's not that big a difference between the two."_

_The newly-named Crowley grimaced. "That's what _they_said." He gestured vaguely downwards. "Makes a difference to me." His grin returned. "I'm not eating dussssst. I've defied God. I _rock."

_It was Aziraphale's turn to scowl. "Blasphemy," he murmured, and turned away, but he laughed a little. "Limbs give you __such __an ego." He raised an eyebrow. "And __do __try to stop hissing. You're not a snake anymore—it'll scare the humans."_

_"That would be the _point_, my dear Adversary."_

_Aziraphale didn't quite seem to know what to say to that. "So…what. You're here to stay, then? On Earth?"_

_The demon tilted his head so it was closer to Aziraphale's. "So long as you are. My superiors wouldn't allow me to leave their little plaything unprotected from your…__good influence__." He laughed, and leaned in even closer to Aziraphale's red ear. "Oh, and…angel?"_

_Aziraphale didn't dare move. "What?" he whispered, his voice low as he tried not to blush at the Enemy's close proximity._

_There was a growling sound as Crowley leaned in to bite Aziraphale's ear for a third time, a shocked yelp, a smack, a second yelp from a different man-shaped entity, and they didn't see each other again for another decade._

* * *

For the second time in his existence, Crowley watched the angel storm away from him in anger and embarrassment. And Crowley couldn't help but laugh. Okay, so it would take a little more than slight annoyance to cause the angel to become violent. That was good to know. Crowley wasn't convinced that they would _never _come to arms against each other, but they'd been able to properly size each other up here. They could probably share a planet and be relatively okay. That was good. Because they were going to be here for quite a while.

"Until Armageddon," Crowley muttered, chuckling disparagingly. He gave one last look around the place where Eden used to stand, shook his head, and continued his travels. Evil never sleeps, and all that.

* * *

**_(A/N)_**

**_This is the Crowley!version of Chapter 6, which described Aziraphale's life directly after Eden. I think that my early chapters aren't that great, 6 included, but I really like this Crowley version. I feel like it's more...I don't know, thoughtful. But what can you do? I added a line to Chp.6, but I can't redo the whole thing. Whatever, though. Eek._**

**_Also: I love Crowley-and-Beelzebub's speech impediments. Word Proccessor does not. XD_**

**_Much love,_****_  
Miyazaki A2_**


	23. Café

**Alternate title:_ "Fascinating Little Restaurants Where They Know You"._**

* * *

Margot Wilcox was a business-woman, but she was also a family-woman. She owned a little café in Sussex—not a chain, just a singular unit, but she ran it like an army post. She was of the opinion that customers really _loved _it when you could address them by their names, and in keeping with that, she knew the name of each and every individual who had been in her restaurant more than thrice. She even made sure that her employees did, too. A memory for faces was a crucial credential.

She liked to think of her café as a romantic hot-spot. She hardly ever got any teenagers or single people in, but she got a lot of couples. There was Christine and Harold, the little elderly couple that had grown up here in Sussex, and then there was Lucia and Nick, a pair of Americans who'd gotten sick and tired of their country's bloody fickle government. There was Alice and Frank, Erika and Charlie, Ruth and Aaron.

And then of course there was Ezra and Anthony.

These two men weren't quite Margot's favorite regulars, as they mostly kept to themselves, but they were certainly the most interesting. They would come into the café, order something that, usually, Margot could not remember being on the menu, and then just sit in their booth, talking for ages. Funny thing was, it was hard to _get_ them to talk whenever Margot was around. Her sister had always told her that she could be overbearing, but Margot brushed that idea off. These two were just shy.

Of course, if she were being completely honest with herself, and she usually was, it didn't help much that she'd made a serious faux pas the first time they'd come to eat here. She'd been just about to take their order when she'd noticed that each of them was wearing a plain gold band on their left ring-fingers.

She always jumped at the opportunity to get to know her newest customers better, so she'd flashed a friendly grin and said, "Getting away from the wives today, are we?"

The two men had been smiling somewhat indulgently up until that very second. Now, the younger one with the black hair stiffened and gave her a scowl, while his blonde companion buried his face in one hand, looking mortified.

"Uh, no. We haven't got _wives_," the darker man had said coolly.

It had taken Margot a few seconds for comprehension to finally set it. Then she blushed. "Oh, right! Well, I see. Well now, there's nothing wrong with that at all! Look at me, forgetting all about this modern world we live in." She gave a nervous, shaky grin. "I have a niece, you know, who's, er…like _that. _Nothing wrong with it at all."

The dark man with the sunglasses raised a perfect eyebrow. He looked over to his partner, who was presently lifting his head, and he said, "You know, angel, I do believe that this woman is the first person in the history of the world to mistake you for a heterosexual." He turned back to Margot. "Kudos."

The blonde glared balefully.

Margot, embarrassed at being privy to the exchange, especially the pet-name, coughed delicately. "Very sorry, gentlemen, but can I have your names? For the, um, register?"

The blonde seemed to perk up at the idea of a register, and he gave a semi-forgiving smile to the woman. "Oh, well, my name is Ezra Fell, and this is my—"

"It's Anthony Crowley," said his partner, tersely, crossing his arms.

They ordered a roast quail to share with a bottle of fine red wine, and as Margot searched for the very surprised dead poultry, she was completely convinced that these two would never come back again.

But, as it was, Margot was wrong. They _did _come back, quite frequently at that. She could never figure out why. But she was glad for it. Because, even though they weren't her most sociable regulars, they were fascinating. She would hang around corners just to catch glimpses of their conversations, during which both their faces would animate to an almost inhuman level, the emotions they expressed deeper than any other couple she'd ever seen. It was obvious that the connection between the two men was deep and strong, as if they'd known one another for eternity. She'd seen only a few couples with a bond that strong in all the years she'd been making food and learning names. The sight always made her smile. It made her believe in love.

* * *

**_(A/N)_**

**_Short and sweet, hopefully. I wanted to see if I could get across what was nice about the AC pairing from an honest third-person style. Kind of an experiment. Hope it's not totaly crap! :D_**

**_Also: I love Azzi and Crowley's human names. :)_**

**_Also also: Don't you love how I saw Sussex like I actually know anything about the place? I'd like to apologize to any actual Englishmen -- I'm just pretty sure that that's part of the South Downs, so I went with it. ((crawls under a rock))_**

**_Much love,  
Miyazaki A2_**


	24. Possessive

Angels are not sexless in the way that Ken Dolls are—as in, lacking genitalia. (That would just be awkward.) Rather, they're sexless in the way that _priests _are meant to be sexless—as in, they simply go without sex. They don't need it, don't need to propagate their species, so without making an effort, they simply don't even _want_ it.

Going by that definition, it could be said that Crowley, too, had been sexless for the longest time. It wasn't always like that, of course. In earlier centuries, he'd done a bit of dirty business with humans, men and women alike, for the sake of his job, but never very often. Somewhere around the sixteenth century, he'd stopped altogether.

It wasn't that he disliked sex—on the contrary, it had the potential to be quite nice. It was just that, with humans, sex could be such a messy business. There were almost always strings attached, strings which he'd never had the particular desire to get himself tied up in. If there was any way to avoid that situation, he would.

Besides, he was a tempter, not an incubus. He'd discovered that _he _wasn't a necessary cog in the machine of unrighteous seduction. It was like having a ghost writer—it didn't matter who did it as long as it got done. He'd discovered that unrighteous sex with another human was just as damning as unrighteous sex with a demon, so he never had to get involved at all, other than the barest of temptations. His working theory was that sex was meant to be one of the deepest and most honest expressions of love, so when it wasn't used for that purpose, _that's _when you got in trouble. It was all the same if a man slept with a prostitute or if a woman cheated on her husband, didn't matter with whom. It wasn't about being a demon at all.

Besides, there was something that just felt _wrong _about sleeping with people because you _had _to, not because you actually _wanted_ it.

--

Aziraphale's body was made of curves and soft skin, and he didn't snore. His face had lost its flush in the hours since their most recent encounter sans clothes, but there were still little beats of sweat on his pale skin. His hair even seemed to still be a little damp. The green glow of the alarm clock on the nightstand beside their bed glinted off the sheen of his angel's hair, giving him an eerie, not-quite-ethereal radiance.

Crowley was simply watching him sleep. The angel had been sleeping so regularly lately that it was hardly an unusual sight by now, but Crowley couldn't help it. Aziraphale _was _one of those people who actually looked like angels when they were asleep. It was a beautiful sight, of course, but it was also amusing how cheesy it was. Crowley rather enjoyed it.

Crowley propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at the angel. One of Aziraphale's hands strayed from his side to the pillow Crowley was now leaning on, and the demon smirked. Aziraphale's hands were soft and plump and beautifully manicured, but they were also much stronger than any human's. If Crowley had been anyone else, he would have serious bruises from how hard the angel had gripped his arms tonight.

Crowley smiled like a snake. He _wasn't _anyone else, and that was the point. If Crowley's sexuality used to extend to anyone it needed to extend to, Aziraphale had a one-track sexuality. Crowley had never seen the angel look at anyone with even a glimmer of Lust—or even the romantic love that was so precious to Heaven—in his eyes…at least, not anyone but Crowley himself. It was rather an honor. Plus, it appealed to the possessive side of Crowley's nature.

In short, Aziraphale belonged to him, and no one else in the entire world, ever.

Crowley leaned down to press a kiss to the palm of the angel's hand, and Aziraphale's fingers twitched against his cheek. The demon nuzzled the hand for a moment, murmuring "Mine," and finally put his head down and fell asleep.

Aziraphale, still mostly asleep with his eyes still closed, smiled slightly. He said a single word, more of a sigh than an actual statement.

"Yours."

* * *

Aziraphale had never been amused by the demon's sexual excursions. He'd been strangely glad when they'd ceased sometime during the 1500's. He wasn't sure, at the time, why it had bothered him so much. He'd told himself that he felt the demon had been taking advantage of those people, and that it wasn't fair because those were the types of wiles that he couldn't thwart.

It certainly hadn't been because he'd been jealous.

Now, Crowley wasn't sleeping with anybody—well, any _human_—but he still had a tendency to flirt, if it could get him what he wanted. He would flash seductive grins to get good service at restaurants and use a purring tone of voice to get expensive items for free. On a few memorable occasions, the demon had even touched a few hostesses on the wrist to get better seats at the Ritz.

It was really getting the better of Aziraphale. Envy was a sin, but jealousy was different. Envy was for a claim that had gone un-staked. Jealousy…that was something different.

Aziraphale was currently glowering as Crowley made eyes at a salesgirl at an electronics store as they attempted to find a cell phone for the angel. (Crowley's idea.) The phone that Crowley was describing was so high-tech that it probably didn't exist, so he was throwing in a little bit of his wiles to get the girl to go look for it in the backroom. And, apparently, he thought that the absolute most effective way of getting exactly what he wanted was to lean in close to the girl and wink a lot. It was supposed to be a joke, really, but Aziraphale was not laughing.

When the salesgirl went off, in a slight daze, to search for the magical device that Crowley had requested from the backroom, the demon finally seemed to notice the angel's ill-humor.

"Oh, what?" said Crowley, giving the angel a teasing smile.

Aziraphale looked away.

Crowley laughed. "Angel, don't be such a grump. I'm only playing."

Aziraphale snorted. "I could see that. That poor girl is probably having an asthma attack in the backroom right now. When did you get to be such an awful flirt?"

"When I realized it bothered you," said Crowley, impishly, as he picked up a plastic-encased phone. Then, his ears almost seemed to twitch. "Do you really think I had that kind of effect on her?"

Aziraphale took the phone from Crowley, pretending to read the back of the package just so he wouldn't have to look the demon in the face. "You're just fishing for compliments now, you vain old Serpent."

"True." A pause. "I'm not _really _bothering you, am I?"

"If I say yes, will you stop flirting or start flirting even more?"

Crowley paused, as if he really had to think about his answer. Aziraphale gave something like a snarl and turned to face the shelves rather than his counterpart.

This was all much too amusing for Crowley, dangerously so. "Aziraphale!" he said, clapping a hand on the angel's shoulder. "Lighten up, angel, for Someone's sake. It's not like I'm jumping into anyone's pants here."

Aziraphale blushed and looked at Crowley sidelong. "Oh, I know. It's just…sometimes I worry."

"Pssh. About what?"

Aziraphale looked flustered, as if he really wished that he hadn't said anything. "Oh, I don't know. It's just, sometimes, I feel like you're going to find someone more fun or more interesting or more—_something_…and go running off with them. Or something like that. I don't know, it's stupid."

Crowley stood speechless for some moments. He'd never seen Aziraphale insecure like this before. He didn't like it. "Yes, it _is _stupid. Fuck, Aziraphale. _Aziraphale._ Is that what your blessed issue is? Please." He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "Who am I going to go running off with? Please. I'm not going anywhere."

When the salesgirl returned with the much-higher-tech-than-necessary-or-possible phone Crowley had asked for, it was to find that the man with the sexy sunglasses had suddenly lost all interest in her. She mentally decided that no, it probably wouldn't be wise to ask him for coffee after all, and maybe she should get to know people more before developing little crushes.

* * *

**_(A/N)_**

**_I was watching this comedian one time who said that women should stop worrying about whether their boyfriends say "I love you" or not. He said that all a girl should really want to hear from their guy is "I'm not going anywhere," because it's the most honest and romantic thing a guy can really say._**

**_Needless to say, it stuck with me. This is also sort of based off of all the GO fics that have Crowley sleeping around like some sort of sex-fiend...and they never mentioned anything like that in The Book...so, yeah._**

**_Just another short, sweet snippet of the boys showing their luuuv. XD Hope you like it. Or rather, hope you don't hate it. :,D_**

**_Much love,  
Miyazaki A2_**


	25. Lies

**Full Title: _Lies to Tell People Who Might Have a Problem with the Truth_**

* * *

They weren't friends, not in the least. They were just two people who'd happened to have known each other of a long time and were sort of used to each other. They didn't really care overmuch about each other. It would be all the same if they were replaced by another angel or demon, or if they'd never even met in the first place. They wouldn't even miss each other if they were separated on a permanent basis.

All their time spent together on Earth meant very little to either of them. All those times getting drunk together—that was just for the sake of not getting drunk _alone_. All those long, heavy conversations—well, it wasn't as if they had anyone _else _they could talk to, was it? If Crowley had another demon to talk to, or if Aziraphale had another angel to talk to, they'd that opportunity any day. Really. They didn't even _like _each other.

The Arrangement was a farce, of course. It had only been instated to make sure that each of them stayed out of the other's business and out of their way—and, of course, to ward off the threat of inconvenient discorporations. The fact that they'd both ended up in London, despite this, was purely accidental. Besides, they both liked the place. Why should either one of them move just because the other was too stubborn or stupid to keep away?

The fact that they seemingly willingly sought out each other's company also meant very little. It was out of boredom, mostly. You got lonely being the only ethereal or occult Being on the planet, so you don't really have any other choice but to seek out the only other Being who even slightly knows what you're talking about or where you're coming from. Even if he _is _your enemy.

But they weren't friends. No, no, no. Demons don't make friends. Angels don't play favorites.

The fact that Aziraphale was the first person to whom Crowley showed off the Bentley meant nothing. The fact that Aziraphale called Crowley to mourn every time he sold a book was likewise inconsequential. There was nothing significant about their dinner-or-lunch dates or the fact that they ate off of each other's plates at these meals. And you could easily wave off all the times they'd shirked their duties as Representatives of Heaven and Hell to spend time with each other with the simple phrase _'Know Your Enemy.' _None of those things _meant anything. _Crowley and Aziraphale were neither better nor worse, not changed at all, by these encounters.

The biggest proof of their non-friendship was their little spectacle at the non-Apocalypse. Being godfathers to the Antichrist, defying Heaven and Hell, standing by one another at the very brink of Armageddon—that was all driven by pure _selfishness._ They were thinking of themselves, not each other. They were thinking about how they _personally _did not want the world to end. The fact that their counterpart agreed with their opinion was a mere convenience. It could have been anyone, and it wouldn't have made a difference. Neither of them made Earth more enjoyable for the other. Really. They weren't friends. Honest.

And for God's sake, dismiss the declarations of affection they made as they prepared to face Satan. It's amazing what stress and mortal terror will make a person say.

* * *

**_(A/N)_**

**_Well. Hmm. What can I say about this? _**

**_Well, I always love the GOfics where someone makes an offhand comment about how Aziraphale and Crowley are such good friends, and Crowley reflexively says "We're not friends," and Aziraphale just gives him a fond look because they both know the truth. :3 This stemmed somewhere from that kind of idea._**

**_Hope you didn't hate it! _**

**_Much love,  
Miyazaki A2_**


	26. Text

Aziraphale was sitting on the pristine white couch in the living room of his and Crowley's cottage, holding the cell-phone that the demon had purchased for him. The demon, having been apparently forgiven by Downstairs, was out on assignment in the States. The location of his assignment required a good deal of driving to reach, and apparently the poor dear was dreadfully bored, because little messages kept _beep_ing into existence on the screen of the angel's phone. Crowley had never taught Aziraphale how to reply to these text-messages, as they were called, but the angel eventually figured it out—and received a snarky congratulatory message in return. Since then, they'd been having a relatively steady conversation, mostly made up of Crowley complaining about his mission. Poor dear must not have been having any fun at all.

_Beep!_

"**For the life of me I can't remember which side of the road to drive on,"**said Crowley's most recent text.

"**Perhaps you shouldn't be talking to me while you're driving, dear,"**Aziraphale wrote back, slowly and inefficiently. This texting business was really quite ridiculous. Why couldn't they just talk on the phone?

_Beep!_

"**You dumb bastard, I have 15 more minutes to drive in this damn rental. I'll text as much as I want before I have to work."**

"**Aren't you worried about the other people on the road? You're a hazard."**

_Beep!_

"**The other people on the road are way worse than me."**

"**Don't get yourself killed then, you stubborn demon."**

A minute of radio silence.

_Beep!_

"**What are you wearing?"**

Aziraphale stared blankly at the cell-phone for a few long moments, mouthing "What?" to himself.

_Beep!_

"**Be specific."**

Not completely understanding why, Aziraphale felt his face get a little hot. Still, he didn't dare ignore the request. On had to assume the demon had good—well, not _good, _but at least reasonable—reasons for everything he did. **"Pastel blue long-sleeve shirt, tartan vest. Red tie. Khaki slacks. Brown shoes." **He hit 'send' and quickly sent another that simply read: **"Why?"**

_Beep!_

"**How about your glasses?"**

"**Well, yes, my glasses of course." **Not that he needed them, really. He wore them because the kind of human he pretended to be usually wore them. Crowley knew that.

_Beep!_

"**Undo your tie."**

Aziraphale nearly dropped his ridiculously expensive phone. **"What?" **he sent.

_Beep!_

"**Undo your tie. And take off your vest, too."**

Aziraphale's face was now burning in earnest. He was beginning to get an inkling of what the demon was playing at. Slowly, he did as he was told, and then replied, **"OK, I did." **He imagined the low chuckle the demon surely would utter when he received the message, and then he shivered at the image. Gosh, but this was strange. Getting chills at the mental image he was having of his demon having a mental image of him.

_Beep!_

"**Your shirt's a button-down, right?"**

"**Right."**

_Beep!_

"**Unbutton it."**

A pause.

_Beep!_

"**All the way down."**

"**Crowley, this is extremely inappropriate."**

_Beep!_

"**Zira, have you got your ring on?"**

The angel paused again to touch the simple gold band on his left hand. The demon barely ever referred to it, not since they'd exchanged them. Strange that he'd bring it up now. **"Yes," **he wrote. **"Have you?"**

_Beep!_

"**Yes."**

_Beep!_

"**And I'm not being inappropriate. I'm just in the middle of being bloody lonely."**

_Beep!_

"**Have you opened your shirt yet?"**

Sighing and shaking his head, Aziraphale undid his entire shirt before hitting 'reply'. **"Yes, dear."**

_Beep!_

"**Good. Now take a picture and send it to me."**

Aziraphale blinked. **"A picture? I've no idea where my Polaroid is & by the time the photo got to the US, you'd be home."**

_Beep!_

"**With your phone, dolt."**

"**This phone takes pictures? How?"**

Crowley told sent him instructions so specific and thorough that the angel would have had to be a complete illiterate ignoramus if he didn't understand. Blessedly, he wasn't.

Face beet-red, the angel fidgeted with his open shirt, feeling distinctly un-angelic. He supposed there wasn't anything particularly sinful in this transaction, but it was iffy at best. Still, he stretched out his phone away from him and pushed the little button on the side until the faux shutter snapped. Curious, he looked back at the screen, and only blushed harder at the idea of sending it to Crowley. But it would only have been to put the demon in a dark mood if he refused, so he hit the 'send' button before he could change his mind.

_Beep!_

"**Yum. Thanks."**

Pssh, what could Aziraphale say to that? 'You're welcome'? There was absolutely no way to respond with any sort of dignity—

_Beep!_

"**Shit, I'm here. G2G, Zira. TTYL and all that. Love you."**

And there it was. A little whoosh of surprise escaped the angel's lips. Aziraphale was more stunned by that last message than anything else. In a daze, he typed, **"Goodbye. Be safe. Call me later. Love you too," **and hit 'send'.

It occurred to Aziraphale a few minutes later that he was very glad that he did not know how to delete old messages. In all likelihood, he would read that last message of Crowley's until the demon came home.

* * *

**_(A/N)_**

**_Sorry it's been so long since the last chapter. I honestly just haven't had any ideas. XD_**

**_This one popped into my head yesterday, and it seemed sweet and silly, so I couldn't resist writing it down. :D_**

**_Hope you like it!_**

**_Much love,  
Miyazaki A2_**


	27. Café, Part Deux

Ezra was sitting alone at his usual table, which was so uncommon that it was rather jarring for Margot when she came to take his order. She knew that both Ezra and Anthony had jobs that often sent them out of town—sometimes out of country—but usually when one was gone, the other stayed and ate at home. The fact that Ezra was here today, alone, felt like it meant that he was lonelier this time than usual. Margot decided to be extra sweet today.

"Hellooooo there, Ezra," he greeted him in a singsong, smiling brightly. She didn't know if he'd seen the smile, though, because he was looking rather intently out the window beside his seat. He jumped slightly at the unexpected sound of her voice, which nearly caused him to spill the tea he'd been nursing for a few minutes. Rounding quickly to face her, he stammered out some vague greeting in response, sounding very far away.

Margot laughed, her hand alighting on his shoulder for a moment. "Anthony away on business still?"

His eyes flickered back to the window for half a second. "Yes. Er. Actually, he's coming home today. His flight should land''—he checked his watch, and seemed vaguely disappointed by the result—"in half an hour."

Margot paused in pulling out her order pad. "You're not picking him up?" People still did that, right? Was she living in a fantasy world where couples still picked each other up at airports?

He smiled, but there was something of a sardonic twang to his voice as he said, "No, no. He always takes cabs to and from airports. We only have the one car, and he's terrified of leaving it in an airport garage…but then, he's even more terrified of letting me drive it."

"It _is _a beautiful vehicle," Margot conceded, shrugging. Personally, she was more of a little-red-Corvette kind of lady, but _eh. _To each his own. "So what can I get for you today, Ezzie?" she asked, readying herself for some high cuisine order that she would not realize her cafe served until the cook finished preparing it.

Oddly enough, he actually ordered a Number 7 on the menu, a vegetable soup. Apparently he and Anthony only got creative when they were together. Yes, very jarring.

In a confused little daze, Margot left to go drop the order off at the kitchen, leaving Ezra alone with his thoughts and his tea once more.

"A Number 7 for our Ezra," she told Brian, one of the cooks.

"No Anthony?" he asked, because after ten months or so, he and the other cooks were quite used to the waitresses' usual orders for 'Ezrananthony'.

"Away on business," said Margot, smiling conspiratorially. There was probably something morally questionable about talking behind their customers' backs like this, but that's what her café deliberately specialized in. All the employees enjoyed it, thought it was a real hoot.

"What does he even _do _for a living? I swear he's part of the mob," the cook muttered, beginning to line up various vegetables to chop. This was a big mystery about Anthony and his partner—their exact lines of work. Usually customers would fork over this information one way or another sooner or later, but not these two. After nearly a year of patronage, nobody had worked out just how these two men paid their checks.

"I think he must be some sort of salesman," Margot confided, whispering as if somebody of weight could potentially hear her. "I heard Ezra call it an 'infernal business' once. And the most hellish thing I can think of with all that traveling is a _salesman_."

Brian laughed tragically. "Those bastards! I know what you mean."

"Mm—hmm. I think I've got him all figured out." She watched for a second as Brian dumped his chopped ingredients into a vat of boiling water. "Make that extra-super-wonderful, okay, darling? Ezzie looked a little down today."

"Will do, Captain," said Brian, giving Margot a salute before she left to deliver another couple's meals.

As time passed, Margot realized that she was watching the window just as much as Ezra seemed to be. She focused on her other customers just as much as they deserved, of course, but her mind always seemed to stray to the blonde man with his soup. He seemed to be extremely on edge the entire time he was there; he even insisted on paying as soon as he got his meal, as though he was in some great hurry. But even after he finished eating, he just sat there at the table, looking out the window with the most heart-wrenchingly expectant expression on his face.

The nice thing about being the manager was that it was completely acceptable to hand her work off to some other waiter as she watched Ezra from around the corner of the block of booths. It wasn't as though she had much choice in the matter, anyway. The difference between Ezra-with-Anthony and Ezra _alone _was more than a little morbidly fascinating, even if it was the most jarring thing of all. When Anthony was there, Ezra almost trembled with potential motion and energy, as if his partner's presence instilled in him an intense desire—a _compulsion—_to reach out and touch the world around him, both metaphorically and literally. But without the dark-haired man, it was as if Ezra had not only lost his inspiration, but as though was afraid to do _anything_, as if he thought even _smiling _too brightly would throw something important terribly off-balance.

It was actually a little bit worrying. For some reason Margot began to feel that it was dreadfully _important _for these two men to be together, for reasons that she couldn't even begin to fathom.

Her worry was on the edge of mild panic when, suddenly, a black taxicab pulled up the sidewalk across from her café, and suddenly Ezra was shining as brightly as ever. Actually, the entire café seemed to brighten as the bespectacled man stood from his booth, leaving a generous tip on the table, and quickly rushed out of the building. Completely and utterly hypnotized, Margot watched as Ezra nearly ran up to the cab, pausing only to allow room for a dark-suited figure—obviously Anthony—to jump out of the vehicle. She spied on them long enough to see their hands reach out and touch each other's, but then a young waitress bumped into her, sending a waterfall of silverware cascading onto the linoleum. Shaking herself out of her daze, Margot stooped to help the girl pick everything up, cracking jokes the whole time and telling the girl not to worry about that, all my fault, really, can't think of what I was doing, just standing there and all, hahaha.

When Margot straitened back up, the cab was gone, as were the two men. She _huffed _in mild disappointment, but then decided that once a customer was out of her building, they were none of her business. So, spell broken, she went back to her business, making eyes and using pet-names wherever she could, all smiles and warmness.

The café never did seem to lose its brightness the whole day, though.


	28. End

The asteroid called 1999 RQ36 had only had a one-in-one thousand chance of striking the Earth. Earth's scientists were aware of this asteroid and quite concerned about it for a very long time. Luckily, they had methods with which they could deflect the asteroid, and were aware of the dates on which they needed to do it.

But, as providence—or the lack thereof—would have it, the scientists did not do anything about it. Nobody _but _the scientists was all too concerned, so publicity and funding were hard to come by. Everybody needed them to be doing other things, and everybody seemed to assume that when the time came, they would be able to send Bruce Willis and Chuck Norris into space with a nuke and be done with it.

Unfortunately, when the time did come, Misters Willis and Norris were unavailable; against all odds, 1999 RQ36 struck the Earth in the year 2182. The Earth had survived 2012, but not 2182.

Granted, it may have survived if the ethereal and occult inhabitants of Heaven and Hell had not decided to take advantage of the calamity and finally get around to that little war they'd been meaning to have. But they _did _have their war, and there was nothing any inhabitant of Earth could do about it.

This category included Aziraphale and Crowley. For this certain Apocalypse, they were left completely out of the loop until the very last second. The new Antichrist was very enthusiastic about the end of the world, as he had been allowed to live a long and unhappy life until he was needed. And so the war was fought. Humans died gradually and usually painfully, either from freezing or starvation or as a result of the supernatural war. All marks of their presence on Earth were destroyed by the fighting. Eventually everything was rubble, and all the humans died and were shuffled off to their new eternal homes.

Crowley and Aziraphale remained on Earth the entire time, even after their human corporations were destroyed.* But they never fought, not with each other's and not with their colleagues. They traveled, trying to avoid the war as much as possible over the course of the Seven Years. At the same time, they tried to avoid humans as well. The other angels and demons fought right out in the open, so winged beings of both kinds were terrifying to people. The few times Aziraphale and Crowley came into contact with people after losing their corporations, they were attacked.

So they stayed in ruined, deserted cities with endless bottles of wine in their fists, out of the way until the very last hour on Earth.

_*The roof of their cottage had collapsed on them when a gang of demons slammed an angel into it in the middle of the first year of the War._

* * *

At the end, it wasn't exactly clear which side had won the war. Once Aziraphale and Crowley met up with their fellows, the only thing that was clear was that the surviving angels and demons were to return to their own realms and never leave again. And they were calling for Crowley and Aziraphale to finally join their ranks again.

"Well, that sounds like a great idea, I won't lie," Crowley lied, his fingers tightly intertwined with Aziraphale's behind their backs. He was looking at the demons with a manic, nervous little smile, and it flitted through his mind that the demons had made themselves much more monstrous-looking just for this war. Likewise, all the angels had tall, muscular, perfect, identical bodies, with long, lush hair, complete with halos, robes, and heavenly glows.

Whereas, Aziraphale and Crowley appeared more or less as humans, just with large, strong wings jutting out of their backs. Shirts, pants, jackets. Neither of them was even carrying a weapon.

Their lack of flare unnerved Crowley as he continued, "No, really, it would be an honor to be banished to Hell with you guys like a real soldier of Satan, but unfortunately, guys, I'm not one. I'm a pretty nice damn guy."

Aziraphale nodded vehemently. "Oh yes, he's really a pathetic little excuse for a demon. You lot wouldn't want to be stuck with him for the rest of eternity. He wouldn't even help you torture the damned humans." He turned his eyes to the angels, who were regarding him with nearly as much distaste as they bestowed upon the hell-spawn, which triggered an instinct inside him that made him just _ramble_. "Of course, the same goes for me too, fellows. I eat and drink much too much, and I really, really like sex." He coughed delicately into his fist as Crowley snickered. "The point is, you'd get awfully sick of me in no time at all. So I really can't accept your invitation to go back Up There."

A voice finally piped up, low and unrecognizable. It wasn't readily apparent whether the voice belonged to a divine or a demonic creature; since they weren't fighting, their forms had begun to change again, and everyone sort of just blended together, making it damned well difficult to tell who was what.

"But where will you go?"

Aziraphale and Crowley must have been blending together in the eyes of their peers as well, like they didn't even seem to count as two Beings anymore. So they went along with it and spoke for each other, their answer having been long since decided upon.

"Limbo," one of them answered, squeezing the other's hand. "You can't say we really belong anywhere else."

A murmur went through the crowd. Vaguely inhuman eyes flitted on and off the two misfits, their owners trying to decide how much the two mattered in the Long Run. Wondering if it would be worth it to stop them or if they had any right to.

"I mean, it's not like we lived Up There or Down There for longer than we lived Right Here"

Another voice, this one slightly easier to peg as angelic, directed a question towards Crowley. "And you're sure you're not just going there to avoid Eternal Punishment?"

Crowley actually laughed. "Are you kidding? I'll be stuck Over There with a bloody angel for the rest of eternity. I call that punishment enough." But he ran his thumb over the back of the angel's hand.

It felt like somebody should have directed a similar question towards Aziraphale for symmetry's sake, but nobody did. Because, really, his actions made so little sense that nobody could even _begin _to fathom a good enough reason for him to turn down the Everlasting Light of Heaven. Not even when the reason was standing right next to him, holding his hand like a lifeline and fingering the gold ring he still wore after all these years.

So the tweed-clad angel just cleared his throat and said, "Yes, well, there you have it, I suppose…Er." He paused and looked at the faces of the angels, his brethren, and attempted to call up some small feelings of bitter-sweetness, to find a face that he would miss after he'd gone to Limbo with no way back. But he failed. The only face he would ever miss, he would never _have _to miss. So he gave a little sigh and finished, "Well, goodbye, then."

"Ciao," said Crowley, waving tauntingly.

And then their images seemed to dim a bit, shift an inch or two, and flicker a few times.

And then they were gone.

* * *

Metaphysical environments are formed by the collective Will of their inhabitants. Human Will is strong enough as it is, but the Will of supernatural beings is even stronger. So when Crowley and Aziraphale joined Limbo's population, the environment obeyed their wishes, which were certainly more specific than the vague desires of the dead humans.

Limbo was similar to Earth, this was true, but only enough for the humans to be comfortable until their return to the living world. They didn't know enough to have a very _solid _existence; transience was intrinsic in the culture. Cities would ebb based on the latest generation of dead people, technology would improve by uneven measures. Nothing was set in stone.

But when the angel and demon made it their home, things changed—changed in that things stayed the same more often than not. The realm was now formed around what they wanted out of it; which, surprising to say, was not the world of the late 22nd Century. No, the world their paradise was based on had existed around two centuries earlier on Earth—the world of ansaphones and petrol-run cars and cassette-tapes. It had been a good world back then, one before teenagers ruled pop-culture and before every piece of technology had games built in.

It was a world they could spend eternity in, a world that, once upon a time, they'd feared to be the last one they'd ever see.

Some years they would allow the Time to shift, sending them into centuries past or future. The humans didn't mind. They adapted happily into Roman garb or Victorian threads*, not sparing a thought to how their language or customs changed from year to year. But most of their time was spent in the late 20th century, so their lives were stable enough.

_*Aziraphale thought that this would be a good experience for Crowley, who had slept through nearly the entire era._

* * *

Before the real end of the world, humans in Limbo were in a sense insentient, unaware of their past lives, and unaware of the fact that they were soon to move onto a new one. They were stuck at the age of their last passing, forever waiting—but unaware they were waiting—for the next life. There was no death, no birth. It did not register in their hazy minds when a new soul entered the realm or when one moved onto the next life on Earth. It happened so often that nobody created any bonds to anybody else.

But, now that there was no Earth to move on to, things changed. Now it was practically as if they were living again, as if this _was _Earth. They aged, they loved, they died. But the cycle of reincarnation was instantaneous, so as soon as they died, they didn't even have time to worry about the state of their soul before they were thrust into a newborn's body. Their memories were more or less wiped, and they started living again. Each life was so different that it was impossible for Aziraphale or Crowley to become bored with this slightly-deceased human race. They continued their old habits of tempting and inspiring, although it did not matter in the least what a person did anymore, seeing as all paths to any other realm were now completely nonexistent.

Aziraphale and Crowley were creatures of habit if nothing else, beings who sought normalcy above all else. So this new existence made them happy beyond compare. For the first time since Creation, they had control over their own destinies and were free to share their destinies with one another—without fear and without end. Nothing would ever take them away from the bookshop or the Bentley or the cottage or anything else in the damned, blessed world.

And it was good.

* * *

**(A/N)**

**Erin here. Well, fellows, this is finally the end. I didn't mean to leave this fic hanging so very long without a proper ending, so here it is. I hope you all like it. The bare bones of this have been on my hard-drive for well over a year, I think, lol. As it is, I think that if I ever write any more Good Omens fluff, it will be part of a different overall fic. I just want this one to be rounded out. Thanks so much for all of you who have read this.**

**Much love,  
Erin**


End file.
